Disorder
by bahari
Summary: L's ordinary day is interrupted by a not-so-ordinary disappearance that he's determined to solve. And when it reappears right under his nose? Obviously a personal attack on his detective abilities-time for mystery, revenge and maybe even a little romance!
1. Distraction

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. (please)

**Part 01 – Distraction**

Here's the thing. Yagami Soichiro didn't show up for work on Monday.

Ordinarily, L wouldn't actually care whether or not Chief Yagami came. Certainly the man was diligent, capable, and, most of all, obedient, but L didn't usually _need_ him. But it just so happened that this day, this Monday, a case report brimming with photographs, video feeds, and fingerprints was due to be delivered to the case headquarters by a certain Yagami Soichiro. And of course, usually those sorts of things were just emailed to L, but he was currently struggling with a hacker whom he rather suspected was Matt under the direction of Mello. They were likely just trying to see what they could get into and how good Matt had gotten at hacking. And again, usually, L would encourage this sort of devious behavior. It was good practice.

But he needed that information, damn it, and so he either needed Matt to get the hell off his server, or he needed Yagami here. Neither of which was currently happening.

L was rather irritated. Yagami had left the office in a rush last evening, after receiving a phone call from a woman L supposed must have been his wife. Or maybe an illegitimate lover. Whichever. L didn't _care_.

Except he _did,_ and all the other members of the task force were rushing to find out where he was, because L _needed_ him and, more to the point, that information he was supposed to deliver. Okay, so L just needed the information. But since Yagami had his information . . . and now L was just going in circles and his logic was totally thrown off and he needed some sugar right about now. Where was Watari with some goddamned sugar? L blinked for a moment, thrown off by the vulgarity of his thoughts. He was more pissed off than he'd thought.

Anyway. So he did care where Yagami had gone but he had apparently vanished off the face of the earth, and L needed some clues as to where he was.

Worst case scenario was that Yagami had received the case notes, and had taken off with them and sold them to the highest bidder in the criminal underground. Even Yagami dying in a car accident was a better alternative than that because and at least then if they were destroyed, they wouldn't fall into the wrong hands.

Best case scenario was that . . . well, screw this. L couldn't think of any reason that would be acceptable for Yagami to be _four hours_ late to work. Four hours late with _his_ case notes. With those notes, L could probably be done by now.

L's rather malicious train of thought was derailed when Watari walked into the room with several slices of cake and a mug of tea. L accepted it distractedly, and began to sip the hot tea. He frowned a bit and set it on the desk before him, staring at it with wide eyes, willing it to cool to a temperature suitable for human consumption.

Where on earth was Yagami? Could he be dead? Was a car crash or some other accident plausible? L began to calculate the odds of Yagami getting into a car accident, taking into account the morning traffic, his driving record, personality, etc. before he realized that he actually didn't care. All L cared about was his case notes, and he was beginning to think that Yagami had better be dead, for how long he was making L wait. He hated waiting.

And, since L had nothing better to do right now than speculate, who had called Yagami last night? When he'd received the call, his face had paled and he'd made hurried excuses before rushing out before quitting time. It was quite unlike him. Sometimes he even slept in the office so he wouldn't have to waste any time commuting. And assuming it _was_ his wife who had called him, not some illicit love interest, he had likely gone home due to family troubles.

Well, that was irritating too. Not for the first time, L was appreciative of the fact that he had no family and almost no connections. It made everything so much simpler.

L glanced up at his monitor that connected him to the police station and very nearly choked on his tea. As he watched, Yagami Soichiro rushed into the room, red-faced and flustered. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, and he was wearing the same clothes he had been when he'd left the office last night. L tried to listen to the conversation that was going on, but there were too many people speaking at once, and he was having a difficult time distinguishing individual voices.

Yagami pushed past the officers surrounding him and walked over to L's laptop, where he placed a thick manila folder on the table next to it.

"Everything's in there, L," he said, and L was intrigued by his voice, which was gravelly and hoarse. He wondered what could have Yagami so distraught. For a few seconds, he thought about it—for the past few weeks, he had seemed tired and stressed and generally ill, but L had chalked it up to stress from the case. But now that he thought about it more intently, he realized that Yagami had also been trying to get home more often, and earlier too.

"Thank you, Yagami-san," L said, remembering his manners. Watari would be proud. And perhaps would bring him more cake.

Yagami nodded and turned around, presumably to leave once more. But L had had to wait for _four hours_—no, make that _four hours and twenty-four minutes and thirteen seconds_—for the notes, and he would at least have his curiosity sated for his troubles.

"Why was Yagami-san over four hours late?" L asked, the computer program masking his voice making his tone sound even more insensitive than it actually was, which was saying something. Well, no one had ever accused the world's greatest detective of beating around the bush any.

Yagami turned back around, and L could see that he was nearly at his breaking point. His eyes were narrow and focused, and his muscles were so tight he was practically trembling. "Family troubles," he ground out.

"Is everyone all right?" L asked. His voice was _so close _to being concerned.

"I hope so," Yagami said, his voice tired and defeated sounding. He glanced around, and when he saw that he had everyone's attention, he sighed and turned to address them. "I apologize for my tardiness, and especially apologize for not calling in earlier. My wife called last night and told me that my son hadn't made it home from school." Yagami paused and swallowed, and he took a deep breath. "We haven't heard anything from him yet."

There were general murmurings of condolences and offers for aid from the officers and Aizawa, one of the hardier officers, stepped forward and placed a hand on Yagami's shoulder. "Do you have any idea what might have happened?"

Wearily, Yagami shook his head. "We know he was in classes all day, but after school, we can't seem to find a soul that saw him. He didn't leave a note, so at first we thought . . . we thought kidnapping, or something unfortunate. But there's been no news, no one's called us . . ." He trailed off tiredly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be burdening you with this."

Finally, L cut through this nonsense cleanly with, "I assume, then, that your attention will be with your family for the remainder of the case, Yagami-san?"

Yagami turned again to face L's screen. "Yes, if you'll excuse me," he said, in a voice that sounded very much like he didn't give a damn whether or not L excused him.

"Certainly," L said lightly. "It is only fitting that you should attempt to recover your disappeared son."

Yagami nodded coldly and bowed slightly before turning and hurrying out of the room. L sighed, not loud enough for the microphones to pick up, and sipped the tea in front of him. So Yagami was gone. How frustrating.

L didn't _need _him, like he'd said. But the men on the task force were Yagami's men, not L's, and without Yagami there to tie down their loyalties, they were going to be much more difficult to manage. Not impossible, but . . . not pleasant, and certainly not something that was in L's job description.

And how galling to be eclipsed by a high school student. L remembered very little about he'd overheard Yagami telling his co-workers about his son. He'd sounded proud—apparently, his son . . . L forgot his name . . . but apparently his son had done very well on the national placement tests.

_Good for him_, L thought bad-naturedly. Still sulking, and not really in the mood to look at the files which the other officers were now gingerly sorting through, L ran a search for Yagami in his extensive database, and when the man's name came up, he selected the document about his family.

Wife: Yagami Sachiko

Children: 2

Son: Yagami Raito

Daughter: Yagami Sayu

There he was, the little brat. L stared intently at the tiny photograph. How galling that this high school student managed to set his case back and steal L's most dedicated officer. The degenerate had probably just forgotten to call home last night when he'd decided to stay over at a friend's or stay out all night.

L supposed that he oughtn't jump to conclusions. This Raito could have easily been kidnapped or just mugged. He could be passed out on the streets right now, a victim of a robbery, rape, or even murder.

Or, he could be passed out on the streets right now, drunk off his ass or high. Or he could have slept at his girlfriend's house, or he could have just jumped on a train to get away from the city for a bit. Or anything else that was stereotypically irresponsible and flighty.

He was only seventeen, for God's sake. What had he behaved like, to give his parents such a rigid ideal? They obviously thought he behaved according to a certain expectation and schedule. He was gone for—here, L glanced at the clock—twenty-two hours, and his parents were behaving as though the goddamned apocalypse was upon them. Honestly—staying up all night, searching for him, calling around for him.

Did they have no faith in him whatsoever? Or was he just so dull and static that any venturing outside the norm was cause for alarm? You couldn't even file a missing person's report until they were gone for a full 24 hours. Why on earth would they react this way?

Unless—and here L frowned—unless Yagami-san knew more about his son's disappearance than he was letting on.

L stopped himself and forced himself to look back at the screen. He knew that he should be working on the case; he knew that's what they _paid_ him to do.

But . . . he was bored, the case was at a standstill, the officers had his evidence, and this would be a fun, easy little distraction from the more serious rape/murder/arson case L was currently absorbed in. Besides, once L's mind decided that it was going to take a track, it was awfully difficult to derail.

So with that in mind, L allowed his thoughts to jump back to Yagami-san's son. Did Yagami know something more about his son's disappearance? He had seemed stressed and worried for the past few weeks. L had chalked it up to sleep deprivation and the case and whatnot, but it could have easily have been family troubles.

If that were the case, and they had been having trouble or arguments with their son, then this sudden disappearance could be cause for alarm. With a father who was the chief of the Japanese police, it would be difficult for a seventeen-year-old to stay hidden, even in a city like Tokyo. Yagami-san doubtless had connections and contacts all over the city and he would doubtless have been using them to their fullest extent.

So for Yagami-kun to stay hidden . . . that was quite a feat. Especially if it were under his own prerogative. But even if it were a kidnapping, they would have to be very intelligent criminals. Either way, someone smart was behind this; they would have to be to avoid being seen by traffic cameras, contacts, officers, and various other personnel that could give him away.

Curious now, L told the officers that he had a task to complete, and not to bother him. He brought up the slim file he had on Yagami Raito and skimmed through his stats. 17, 5'11", athletic but not built. Unusual coloring, which would make it doubly difficult for him to hide himself effectively. The profile picture was from last year, but he had a warm, inviting smile, and L felt the corners of his lips quirking in response.

L scrolled through the document, pausing when he reached academia information. Grades—outstanding. Perfect, even. It looked as though he'd never received a final mark under 100. There were some deviations on tests, of course. A point missed here or there. But never more than one or two, and very rarely. National standing—first.

First. That was very good. First ranked in all of Japan was incredible. More curious than ever, L scrolled again until he saw the two little letters: IQ.

And he stopped. And blinked a few times. It was ridiculously high—so much so that it almost looked fake, or as though someone had typed it in wrong. It was only a very few points below L's own, closer than any other human being, and that included those little darlings who were currently trying to hack his system. Even Near wasn't that close. Speaking of the little reprobates, L really ought to get them out of his system.

"Watari," he said, barely raising his voice. He knew the elder man would be within hearing distance.

Sure enough, a few seconds later, he heard Watari's gentle step. "Yes?" he asked.

"My system is having a difficult time warding off the constant barrage of hacks and viruses Matt has been sending me all morning," L said tolerantly. "And while I am appreciative of his considerable skill with computers, I would very much like it if you could call Roger and tell him that some repercussion is in order. If only for the sake of my productivity."

Watari's lips quirked at the corners. "And how do you know it is Matt?" he asked. "Mello and Near are also reasonably skilled at hacking. Not to mention the fact that any number of persons could want to hack your system."

"Mello is not good enough, simply because he is not patient enough to keep trying to find gaps in my security. He would have given up hours ago. Near has the patience, but neither the skill nor the inclination to attempt something so frivolous. And as for all those others who may want to gain entrance into my system . . . I doubt they have an ISP address originating in west Great Britain."

"I did not know the goings-on of your heirs interested you so greatly," Watari teased. L blinked at being treated so flippantly, and then smiled very slightly in response.

"They do not," he said. "I am only interested because it is my computer they are bothering. If Matt had decided to hack someone else, like the CIA for example, then I would not only have no objections, I likely would pay it no mind whatsoever."

"Very good," Watari said, nodding. "I will make the call."

"Thank you," L said, returning to his puzzle.

So, Yagami Raito. Raito, who was as smart as L, even at only seventeen years of age. Who had perfect grades, perfect looks . . . L skimmed down to extracurricular activities. Middle school tennis champion. No surprise there. And apparently he was skilled with the violin as well.

Athletic, fiercely intelligent, musical, attractive. Was there anything this Yagami Raito didn't have?

Well, apparently there was, else he wouldn't have run away.

Or perhaps it was a kidnapping or a rape, or a murder, or any of the other horrid things that happened all too often these days? The fact that he was the police chief's son made him a prime target. But the fact that Yagami-san had been behaving differently in the past several weeks suggested that there could be family trouble affecting him and, consequently, his son.

Perhaps the trouble had been Raito himself? He could have been behaving strangely as well. Or had an argument with his parents, or in trouble at school. Someone that perfect had to have enemies, didn't he?

L thought about that, and thought back to his perfectly charming smile. Maybe not. L imagined that with those angelic features, Yagami-kun likely was able to get people to see things his way. (As opposed to L, who didn't bother getting people to see his way; he just told them what to do and then got new help if they proved to be unreliable.)

L skimmed through the rest of the profile, but found nothing useful. Raito had never had any trouble with the law, and he seemed to be perfectly normal in all aspects, save his unnerving perfection.

How very . . . intriguing. And L couldn't lie to himself and say that Raito's intelligence was the only thing that interested him. That was mostly it, but even that wouldn't be enough to truly startle L. But this boy seemed to have everything—not just good looks, athletic ability, and intelligence, but a good stable family, a reasonably high income, and a healthy social life as well—and yet here he was, disappeared.

The more L thought about it, the more he thought that it was a runaway case. If it were murder, unless his body had been surreptitiously disposed of, they would have found it by now. And L seriously doubted that it was murder, because he would have had to be killed on his way home from school, in broad daylight and while walking with friends. More than unlikely—it was next to impossible.

If it were another crime that temporarily disabled him, such as rape or mugging or something similar, one of Yagami-san's contacts would have been able to find him, or he would have called upon waking up. Kidnapping was the least likely of all, since Yagami-san would have received a ransom note by now, and besides, the students he typically walked home with would have noticed.

As L scanned his file again, he noticed a caveat at the bottom that hadn't been there before. Ah, apparently, Yagami-san was beginning to file the missing person's report. L glanced at the clock. He was an hour shy of the 24 that were typical but L supposed that as chief, he could bend a few rules.

L clicked on the report, and read what Yagami-san had already recorded. Apparently, the last people to see him were the two boys that lived in the same neighborhood, and they'd watched him walk up his front steps at around 3:30. After that, no one had reported seeing him, not even his mother, who'd been inside the house, waiting for him to arrive.

That made murder, kidnapping, or assault even more unlikely, since it would have had to happen as he was standing on his front steps, fiddling with a house key—again, in broad daylight. And his mother almost assuredly would have heard something.

It was a runaway case then. He must have gone up the steps very slowly, waited for his friends to disappear, and then taken off.

Strange. He would have had to have planned it all out, since he obviously hadn't gone inside to gather his things. That meant that at least since that morning, he had planned to runaway and had packed accordingly.

L glanced at the file—yes, his two friends had mentioned that he had been carrying one more bag than usual, and that they had assumed it was a tennis bag or for some other sort of exercise, as it had been a large duffel bag.

So probably before that morning. At least the night before, if not sooner. Obviously, he was very sure about his decision, since he'd likely been thinking about it for a full 24 hours, and probably more. Raito didn't seem like the sort of creature who was spontaneous with his decisions.

And it seemed as though he parents knew something about it, since they had immediately assumed the worst as soon as he hadn't come home. What could that mean? Did they know he was struggling with something? Was he under a great deal of stress?

The answer to that question was obvious, since Raito was in the last year of high school, preparing for the college entrance exams.

So yes, there was stress. But with a child like Raito—a brilliant, determined, driven child—there would have always been stress. At this point, stress was probably normal, even comforting to him.

L's eyes wandered up to examine his picture once again. He focused on it, hard, gnawing gently on his thumb as he thought. Raito's smile was gentle, warm . . . and it looked perfectly manufactured, too, now that L knew what to look for. His lips curved up exactly right, he showed enough teeth to be friendly, but not to frighten, his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. He looked like an advertisement.

And perhaps that was what he was, L thought. Because when he looked very carefully, knowing what he did about Raito's intelligence and what he'd inferred about his personality, L could see that Raito's eyes, though they were shaped like they were smiling, were perfectly blank. Fascinating—when most people had to take pictures, they would actually conjure up the emotion of happiness or joy or even just contentment. They did it automatically, so smiling didn't feel strange on their lips. But Raito . . .

There was nothing. His eyes showed absolutely nothing. Not happiness, nor anger, nor irritation, nor anything else that L could call an emotion.

What if . . . what if Raito's parents thought he'd run away because they knew of a conflict because the conflict had been between themselves and Raito? He didn't seem like the sort of child to challenge his parents' authority. At least, not to their faces. So if that were true, whatever they'd been arguing about would have to be incredibly important for Raito to compromise his image.

This just kept getting more and more interesting. Unfortunately, the door to his room swung open and Watari entered again. "The task force is calling for you," he said. "They think they've found a lead and they want your opinion."

Slowly, L drew his eyes away from the picture in front of him. "Very well," he said, "I will return to my computer, then."

Watari nodded. "Are you working on the case?" he asked. "Is that a suspect?"

"No," L said. "That is Yagami Raito, Chief Yagami's son. I believe he ran away yesterday."

"Oh, yes," Watari said. "I remember some drama about that this morning." He paused, waiting to L to explain his sudden interest in Yagami's personal life. The explanation was not forthcoming, however, so he asked, bluntly, "Why does it interest you?"

L stared at him for a moment, teeth digging into his thumb as he considered. He finally moved his gaze down to the floor beneath him, but not before Watari saw the intense, focused expression he wore. L likely had no intention of answering his question, and he didn't really need to anyway. L had always done what he'd wanted, regardless of what was necessarily right. So if he decided that he was interested in his runaway/kidnapping case, Watari had no room to object.

L listened as Watari's footsteps faded away, and then the door to his room clicked softly as Watari shut it behind himself.

Only then did he raise his eyes to stare at the photo that was still smiling perfectly blankly at him. "It is because he makes me curious," L said to the empty room, before shrugging and closing down the profile and turning back to the laptop that connected him to the task force.

* * *

><p>AN: Hey, guys, 'sup? I decided that since finals are coming up soon and my life is utterly devoid of humor (and since both humor and fanfic reviews make me happy!), I would start uploading this story! This is one from before the stories in my account were erased, so some of you will remember this story, but DON'T RUIN IT OKAY. OKAY, GUYS? That would be awesome. Anywho, this is a major departure from Silence, but it's what I've been writing lately, so this time, hopefully I'll actually get to finish! Yay! Reviews are greatly appreciated :D


	2. Obsession

A/N: I got a fair amount of reviews from people who have already read the story, telling me they were excited to get to the actual meat of the story (and I agree!), and a number of reviews from people asking me to update ASAP. Well, dear readers, your wish is my command. So I give you:

**Part 02 – Obsession**

L stared at the screen in front of him. It was dinnertime, he was hungry, and Watari would soon bring him some tea, cake, and supplemental vitamins that made up for all the health food he refused to eat. The vitamins were in little dinosaur shapes, and had flavors that were vaguely reminiscent of grape, orange, and cherry, but really tasted more like cold medicine. The grainy texture was somewhat unpleasant as well, but even all that was a good deal less unpleasant than actually eating meat or vegetables.

L continued to stare at the screen. He sighed. He hoped that Watari remembered that he had wanted raspberry cheesecake tonight. He'd said it earlier that day, but sometimes Watari considered other items of business more crucial and refused to let L's food requests take up precious short term memory space. L rather thought that since he was Watari's _employer_ and since he needed those sweets to think properly, and if he didn't get the kinds he was craving, he felt thrown completely off his game, that Watari should pay better attention to his requests. But no. Watari could remember the names of the 16 Norwegian victims in a rape and murder case, along with vital stats, time of death, and their genealogy dating back to roughly the 16th century, but when it came to a simple request for raspberry cheesecake? Well, that was just hit-and-fucking-miss, wasn't it?

L knew he was just distracting himself from the complete stalemate he'd reached with his puzzle. And really, although his apostrophe had thus far been rather spiteful and impatient towards Watari and his thrice-damned _vitamins_, it was really the puzzle that L was currently working on that he was cross with.

And if it were one of his usual cases, it would be another matter entirely. L was used to impossible serial killers, or rapists, or terrorists giving him a run for his money. But this was not a grown man practiced in devious and criminal pursuits. This was one Yagami Raito, and he was turning out to be a hell of a lot harder to find than L had originally thought.

At first, L had investigated Raito on a whim (and also because the case he had been working on had been boring him). It was meant to be a nice, straightforward distraction from more tenebrous problems. A runaway was not nearly as serious as an arson case, after all. One teenage absconder was not really L's problem, and he shouldn't have been a problem at all. Finding Raito was meant to be a form of recreation; something easy to simultaneously unwind L's overworked brain and to boost his ego.

But no. Oh, no. Raito had utterly _annihilated_ L's plans for an amusing case. Yagami Raito appeared to have disappeared off the face of the planet, and after two weeks of intermittently searching for him when L had any spare time between or during cases, L was no closer to finding the devious little high-schooler than when he had first acted on his impulse to search for him.

And now, it was personal.

L was the nameless, faceless one. L was the one that no one could find; who had literally no records _anywhere_; who not only didn't show up in searches on the internet, but actually planted false leads to his own identity and whereabouts in those searches. L was untraceable, unthinkably hidden.

And now not only had Yagami Raito audaciously disappeared and had made a mockery of any attempts to locate him; he had effectively made himself as disappeared as L.

The _nerve._

L's frown deepened as he glared at the screen in front of him. He was between cases currently, and it was annoying as hell, since he had no distraction from this Yagami case that seemed to be positively _laughing _at him. Every time he tried to follow a logical path, he'd hit a dead end. It was as though Raito had predicted what means investigators would use to search for him, and had purposefully set up tiny little leads that turned into huge failures.

Now that L thought about it, considering the boy's intelligence, he probably had.

That was what was so galling about this situation, though—the fact that Yagami was just a _child_. A seventeen-year-old should not be able to best the world's three greatest detectives.

And so, for all those reasons, plus L was curious about Yagami as a person, plus L was just plain bored of the somewhat monotonous cases he'd been getting lately, L's little distraction had turned into a full-blown obsession in two short weeks. Hell, he knew it too. It wasn't as though he didn't realize that every moment of his spare time was spent searching for Yagami. It wasn't as though L didn't recognize a fixation when he saw one. He knew what he was doing, he knew it was unhealthy, but he was _L_, damn it, and once L took a case, he couldn't just _stop_.

Watari had noticed his fascination with Raito as well, and while he had only commented a handful of times, L noticed how his brow furrowed in incomprehension whenever he caught L working on Yagami's case. It wasn't worry, exactly; more a case of utter confusion and perhaps a small dose of exasperation at L's apparent inability to focus on anything else in his spare time.

But aside from answering Watari's queries as succinctly as possible, L had steered clear of mentioning or discussing Raito, because his reasoning for taking on the case and _continuing_ to work on it, even though it was just one teenage runaway, was completely illogical.

Normally, L didn't do illogical, and Watari knew it. But with this one situation, L had decided to indulge in his impulsive side and now it had cost him. But he had invested too much already and besides, he had committed to finishing so he was going to finish. He always did. It was as simple as that.

Except . . . it wasn't as simple as anything. It was unnecessarily complex, actually. As mentioned, Raito had obviously planted false leads meant to confuse and irritate. And quite apart from that, L couldn't even figure out if Raito had even left the country, let alone what he was doing for money, living arrangements, and/or school.

It was all very frustrating.

L's thoughts were interrupted when he heard Watari enter the room and he spun around in his chair to face him. Watari set down the tray he was carrying, which contained a tea set, a bowl of sugar cubes, several large pieces of cheesecake (blackberry, L noted with displeasure), and of course, the damned vitamins.

L nodded to Watari before eagerly leaning forward to take a piece of cake. He had wanted raspberry, of course, but at least this was some sort of berry, and it was marbled, per his request. It even had fresh berries and cream on it. For that little addition, L supposed he could forgive Watari. Belatedly remembering his manners, L mumbled a _thank you_ through a mouthful of cheesecake.

Watari nodded, and glanced at L's computer screen, where notes written by Chief Yagami on his son's disappearance still flickered. L didn't miss his perplexed expression, but when Watari turned away, L assumed that the expression was all he would be troubled with tonight. He dug into his dinner in earnest, chewing the vitamins first so he wasn't left with their taste in his mouth once everything good had been eaten.

But Watari had only turned away to untangle some of the computer cords and wires that had gotten snarled together, and when that was done with, he straightened and turned back to L.

"Are you making any headway on that case?" he asked, gesturing towards the computer.

L glanced behind himself and then looked back and shrugged. "No," he said dully, in no mood to discuss his failure at the hands of some spoiled high school student. "Yagami-kun is proving very resourceful. He has managed to cover his tracks expertly."

Watari hesitated for a moment, and then went ahead and asked, "Did Chief Yagami ask you to work on this case?"

L shook his head. "No," he repeated. "His manners would never allow for him to make such an impudent request. And even if he had, I would have no obligation to accommodate him."

"I see. Why, then, are you so focused on Yagami-kun's disappearance? Did he mean something to you?"

"No. I never met him." L spoke to his tea, then looked up to see Watari's reaction.

Watari waited for more explanation. L just stared at him with unnerving stillness. "So you are doing this as a humanitarian act?" Watari finally asked.

"No, it is for my own benefit more than anything else." L's gaze returned to his cheesecake and he started in on the second piece determinedly.

"You're just bored, then?" Watari guessed.

"That's part of it, certainly."

Watari waited, and when once again L didn't elaborate, his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Are you planning on playing this guessing game with me until I get it right?" he asked.

"Or until you give up, yes," L agreed.

Watari smiled sparingly. L must be very bored indeed if he was looking to Watari for some form of entertainment. "Very well. I give up."

L spun back around to face his computer, cake in one hand and teacup in the other. "Excellent," he said, his voice already distant as he immersed himself in the puzzle once more.

"L?"

No reaction from the young man crouched in front of the computer.

"L?"

A noncommittal mumble.

"L."

"Hmm?"

Watari sighed then, and approached the computer. "I have some news."

L didn't even spare him a glance. "Oh," he said.

Watari placed a hand on L's shoulder; the unexpected contact was enough to make him jump a little and blink up at Watari. "Have you gotten anywhere with your puzzle since last night?" Watari asked.

L blinked again, and then looked back at his screen. "Yes," he said. "Early this morning, I found some video footage of Tokyo International Airport that suggests that Yagami has left the country. According to scholastic records and personal testimony, he speaks English and Mandarin fluently, and has a basic grasp on Romantic languages such as French, Spanish, and Italian. There is no record of him ever learning any of the more minor European languages, Russian, or anything from the African continent. I think that I can conclude that he is in either Western Europe or the United States."

"Why not China?" Watari asked, sitting down next to L and warming to the discussion despite himself. "His Mandarin is impeccable, correct? And his Asian heritage would mean that he would blend better there, despite the differences and even disputes China and Japanhave had."

"Among other reasons, I think that the fact that he would blend better is why he is not in China," L said distractedly as he viewed the files on his computer. "It is closest and, as you said, the easiest place for him to hide. It is the most obvious choice; hence, he is not there. There is also the issue of censorship in China that I think the controlling aspect of his personality would be averse to."

"Very well; he's not in China then," Watari conceded. "But the United States and Western Europe is quite a large area. How do you plan to narrow it?"

"Yagami-kun would hide best and would have the best chance of finding cheap lodging and a job in very large cities. While we can't completely rule out smaller metropolitan areas and even countryside, I think it is far more likely that he would be in places such as Paris, London, New York City, or even Los Angeles or Hamburg, depending on the weather he favors."

"That's still a lot of ground to cover."

L nodded. "Yes. I didn't say I was close. I said I had made some progress. Earlier, there was still a good chance he was in Japan, even in Tokyo."

"How did you find that footage in the airport, then?" Watari asked.

"For the past two weeks I have been cross-referencing Yagami-kun's picture with security camera footage all over Tokyo," L explained, turning away from his computer to face Watari. "Nothing has shown up, which is actually highly suspicious, because it is not just the footage of him from the time of his disappearance that doesn't show.

"No footage contains Yagami-kun's image, not even archived video feed. Nearly every person has their image on some camera, somewhere in the world. But he had no matches, so I concluded that he must have either manually gathered everything, or he had a program running that cross-referenced video feed continually and then diverted it from the cameras to his own records so no one could access it."

"Is that possible?" Watari asked. "I have never heard of a program like that."

"That's because it don't exist," L said, biting into a donut. "That sort of technology is coming maybe five or ten years into the future. But Yagami-kun is supposedly excellent with computers, and if he is as brilliant as his IQ suggests, it is entirely possible he wrote the program from scratch."

"Why would he do that?" Watari asked, sipping his tea and frowning. "That would take weeks, or months, or even years to develop, and I doubt he planned his escape so far in advance."

"I agree," L said, nodding. "He didn't do it so he could leave Japan undetected, although I'm sure the program came in handy there. I think he did it simply because he is paranoid and controlling."

"You don't have a very high opinion of his personality," Watari commented.

L blinked, which for him was a sign of surprise. "I never claimed that paranoid and controlling were negative traits," he said, thumb slipping between his teeth. "I myself have those qualities and I have found them quite useful."

"Hmm," Watari said. "All right, so supposing he did develop this program. How could you find that video feed of him in the airport?"

"I did not," L said, turning to his computer. "But a program that powerful is bound to leave holes where it steals video feed. There would be irregularities in the video, like skipping or periods of blank space. Most of the time it's so small, it just seems like a camera or recording malfunction. So instead of looking for Yagami-kun's image, I looked where there were no images. And a pattern emerged."

Watari nodded. "And what pattern was that?" he asked, curious despite himself. Although he had initially disapproved of L's irregular fixation, he was now realizing why Yagami Raito was so fascinating.

L pointed to the screen. "Here, there is a glitch in a traffic camera near Yagami-kun's home, where we see several cabs stopping before the video shorts out a few times." He paused and brought up another video clip. "Here is the video feed from the security camera inside a department store. Around the time the camera blanked out, someone purchased several nonperishable food items, an art set, and a few essentials, such as a toothbrush and other toiletries, totally about 9,000 yen, paid for in bills."

"If that was him, why would he need an art set or a toothbrush?" Watari asked.

"The toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, and a few other similar items were no doubt because he couldn't risk raising suspicion when he packed his bag earlier that morning or the previous evening. If his mother had noticed those items gone, she would have been suspicious," L explained.

"And the art set?"

L began chewing on his nail. "I do not know where Yagami-kun would have picked up this skill, but a talented racketeer would know how to create false ID, passports, and visas with just a simple art set. I have seen it done, and am well-versed in the practice myself," L admitted.

"Interesting," Watari said. "And assuming that was him, where does he go from there?"

"From there, we have a short clip from a traffic camera that suggests that he took another cab." L leaned over to the computer and set another video to play. "And here, we're in the Tokyo International Airport. The front desks are under heavy surveillance, but one of the cameras has a few minutes of blank footage around the time Yagami-kun would have arrived. It was a camera trained on a United Airlines desk, which flies from Japan to the U.S. and to several locations in Western Europe.

"Whoever was at the desk at that time also paid in bills, not with a credit card, which is quite a feat when the ticket was approximately 180,000 yen. I don't have any footage from the terminals he could have gone to, but that is enough evidence to suggest that he is out of the country."

"Very good," Watari agreed. "How will you narrow it down further?"

L shook his head. "I do not know," he said. "I will find something, though. I have as much time as I wish to work on it."

Watari started, realizing the reason he had come into this room in the first place. "Actually," he said, "about that, L. I have some news."

"Oh, yes," L said, turning back to Watari. "I remember you had mentioned that earlier. What news?"

"Roger called me and requested that we visit Wammy house. He and the children are anxious to hear whom you will select as your heir."

L was so irritated that he actually almost made a face. "Watari, I do not want to go to Wammy house. There are many children, and I will be thrown off schedule, and I never get any work done when I'm there."

"It isn't fair to Mello or Near to keep them waiting as you have."

L frowned for a moment. "Life isn't fair," he muttered, and Watari laughed.

"L, you are supposed to represent justice and fairness in the world. It is your job to be fair."

"Regardless. Perhaps I will go in a few weeks or a month or so. When I have had sufficient time to brace myself and prepare," L said obstinately.

"L," Watari sighed, "you must also think of their mental and emotional stability. You cannot just treat them as machines that will wait forever. They are children with emotions and imaginings. If you will not meet with them and observe them, they will lose faith."

L grimaced slightly at that. He remembered past failings—B, A, and others—all too well. "I don't want to," he muttered. Before Watari could really start to scold him, he spoke up again. "But I will go, because it is fair to them for me to do so. And do not lecture me, Watari. I am quite old enough to come to the logical conclusion on my own."

Watari nodded solemnly, though he actually wanted to smile. L technically _could_ have reached the appropriate conclusion on his own, but he often refused to when it came to Wammy house. Although he liked the orphanage well enough, he did not appreciate the children or the limited technological supplies. "Very well," he said. "When did you want to leave?"

"Tomorrow is acceptable," L said. "I can wrap up everything I need to here by then."

"You can always work on your mystery on the plane ride there," Watari suggested.

"I need more technology than that which will be available 45,000 feet in the air," L replied. "I will do what I can, but I do not have any hopes of getting work done until I have left Wammy house altogether."

"I suppose it's wise not to get your hopes up, only to have them dashed," Watari said.

L nodded and then turned away from Watari altogether, determined to get as much work done on this damn enigma that was Yagami Raito as he could before they had to leave.

* * *

><p>AN: Yeah, we're getting started with the plot here! Next chapter, I believe, is when things really get cooking. I'm lightly editing these, but since I spent a lot of time per chapter back when I was writing this, I'm mostly just leaving them alone. If you catch anything or have any suggestions, I'm definitely open to them, though! I figure I can update about every day for about 2 weeks (excluding weekends?), since I've written more on the story than was originally posted. Anyways, please please review? I absolutely love hearing from my readers!


	3. Solution

**Part 03 – Solution**

"What do you think about this case with the thief who only targets anything of worth in the color blue?"

"Mmm."

"It could be a psychosis—or just something to throw off the police. Everything he steals is worth a great deal, blue or not."

"Hmm."

"On the other hand, he has left behind even more valuable objects, such as diamonds, at the crime scene when they don't fit his peculiar standards. Perhaps the dealer he sells the gems and art to is very particular?"

Not even a verbal response this time as L just stared dully at the laptop screen in front of him.

"L."

"Hmm?"

"You're being ridiculous. And you're acting more spoiled than usual."

"Hmm."

"L."

Nothing.

"_Lawliet."_

L's head snapped up upon hearing the unusual moniker—well, not unusual per se, since it was his real name. But unusual in that he rarely heard it spoken aloud. "What?" he asked, the first actual word he'd spoken since their plane had taken off.

"We've been on this flight for nearly ten hours and none of the cases you've been briefed on has sparked even the slightest bit of interest."

"That is true."

"Care to explain why?"

"They are all boring."

Watari paused, argued internally, and finally decided just to let that one go. "And you've been ignoring your pastries. They're cherry turnovers, and you've let them go cold."

L examined the flaky pastries with an expression that was startlingly similar to distaste. "I am not hungry."

"You haven't eaten for ten hours. _Anyone _in your situation would be hungry."

"Not necessarily," L argued, just for the sake of arguing. He had a feeling that Watari was not pleased at being ignored for such a lengthy amount of time, particularly since L was all the company he had on this private jet. "If I were possessed of an eating disorder for an extended amount of time, particularly anorexia nervosa, my brain would stop receiving signals from my stomach to simulate the sensation of hunger."

"L."

"What?"

"Are you anorexic?"

"Of course not, Watari. What a strange thing to say. I was merely pointing out the most obvious hole in your logic."

Again, Watari decided that that comment was probably better left alone. "Why have you been so . . . utterly despondent for the duration of this flight?"

L looked at him plaintively. "I am stripped of internet capabilities while flying," he said, and then paused. "Actually, technically it may be possible to set up a mobile wireless connection, but that technology has not yet been explored fully, and it would be easier to do at slower speeds. Wireless connections in a vehicle, or a train, for example, may be possible sometimes soon. In a jet flying at nearly 800 kilometers per hour, however, all hope is lost for the near future of internet connection."

"So, in short, you are depressed because you can't access the web?"

"Yes, in short."

"And, to be more concise, you are upset because you can't do further research on Yagami Raito."

L didn't answer that for a moment, and instead chewed on his nail. Finally, he said, "I think that 'upset' is too strong a word."

"You didn't protest when I used 'depressed' to describe you," Watari said, using the very last vestiges of his patience to see this conversation through.

"Depressed is a state," L explained tolerantly. "Upset is an emotion. I _am_ depressed. I _feel_ upset."

"It seems to me that you are splitting hairs over terminology while avoiding my mention of Yagami," Watari said, refusing to be sidetracked.

"Hmm . . . yes," L agreed, turning back to his notes on Raito's case. "I know there is something here that will tell me what I need to know. There is always something . . ."

"Perhaps he thought of everything?" Watari suggested wearily.

L didn't even glance in his direction. "Yagami is brilliant, but he is still human. He isn't perfect. He can't be."

"He certainly has planned well, and I'm certain that he didn't expect you to be the one trying to find him," Watari pointed out, leaning back in his seat and considering a nap for the last two hours of the flight. He'd stayed awake out of courtesy for L, but he was not as young as he used to be, and these late hours were starting to wear on him.

"I am aware," L muttered, glaring vaguely at the screen in front of him. "That is why his disappearance intrigues—and frustrates—me. Why would he go to such extreme measures when it was likely that only his father and possibly some members of the NPA would be looking for him? They are capable men, to be sure, but none of them are anywhere near his own intelligence level."

Seeing his chance (however small it was), Watari jumped in. "Speaking of Near," he began, and paused when L turned to face him, his expression slightly startled.

"Was I?" he asked curiously.

"Close enough," Watari said, "since we really ought to discuss your possible successors before we arrive."

"I will not be expected to see them immediately," L said, a trace of panic tainting his usually expressionless tone.

"No," Watari agreed, suppressing a smile. "It will be nearly midnight by the time we arrive at the orphanage, and they should be asleep."

"Have they been made aware of my arrival?" L asked, looking considerably more sedate now that he knew he wouldn't be accosted by overzealous children and preteens the moment he stepped foot on the property.

"No, actually," Watari realized. "I suppose I should call Roger—he doesn't even know we're coming."

L waved a hand. "He doesn't need to; he's undoubtedly asleep right now if it's nearly ten in Britain, and waking him up won't achieve anything. We can let ourselves in."

Watari set down his cell phone. "Very well," he said. There was a pause, and then he returned to his previous subject. "About Near," he said.

L sighed and turned to face him again, though he did look wistfully over his shoulder at the computer which now appeared to be playing bits of skipping video over and over. "What about him?"

"Would you like to be briefed on Near and Mello before we arrive?"

"What is there to know?" L asked, a bit callously. "I assume that Mello is still the same demonstrative, sensitive little creature and Near is still the same socially retarded, frighteningly brilliant child?"

"There is a bit more to them than that," Watari protested. "L, you of all people should know not to categorize anyone."

L sighed and played with his toes a bit. "I am getting rather . . . exhausted from hearing all of your lecturing, Watari," he commented. "I believe that it is causing me distress to hear you disapprove of nearly everything I do as of late."

Watari paused to translate that from subdued, understated L-speak to what a normal 24-year-old might say to their elderly caregiver. What he came up with was, approximately, _God, would you please leave me the hell alone, already? _Watari cringed slightly. When had his internal monologues become so vulgar? "Very well," he said, nodding to show that he understood. "I'll leave you to your puzzle, then."

L made to turn back to his computer, but then hesitated. "Is there anything that I should know before we arrive?" he asked. Watari looked at L in mild surprise. It wasn't like him to be considerate or even understanding. L shrugged, not making eye contact.

"Their IQs and test scores are very close—closer than either of them likely imagine," Watari said, not wasting any time now that he had L's attention. "However, although they look the same on paper, they each have strengths and weaknesses that could be corrected if they could just be persuaded to work together. Mello's zeal and impetuousness would provide energy, but Near's amity and composition would keep him from making errors in judgment due to his own emotion.

"Near seems like the better candidate, except for the fact that he is desperately naïve and, as you so bluntly put it, socially retarded. If Mello were chosen, however, and given free reign, he would likely be dead within weeks. Near would probably last considerably longer; however they would probably accomplish the same amount, given Near's propensity to stall and hesitate."

"Hmm," L said. "It appears that as you said, they would work better as a team. I take it that is not an option?"

"Correct," Watari agreed. "Near _says_ that he would have no problem working closely with Mello, but he does take his own quiet, vindictive pleasure in provoking Mello. Mello flat out refuses to communicate with Near—unless it is to torment him in some way."

"This does not sound promising," L commented dryly. "Is there another option?"

Watari frowned, considering. "Well, there is Matt, but his test scores are quite a bit lower."

"How much lower?"

"Usually at least ten to even twenty points," Watari said.

L considered. "In every aspect and subject?" he asked.

Watari strained to remember through his exhaustion. "We'll have to check with Roger in the morning," he said, "but I believe that he actually scored higher than either of them when it came to technology, and I think when it came to emotional responses and triggers."

"People skills and computers," L summarized. "Interesting combination. Could be formidable. I will have to meet with him as well."

"That could end up being a problem, actually," Watari admitted, leaning back in his chair.

"Why?"

"Matt has asked not to be considered as one of your heirs."

L blinked. "Why?"

Watari glanced over at him. "I suppose he doesn't want to be," he said simply. "I'm not sure, though. You'll have to ask him."

"I suppose I will," L said, biting down on his thumb. He looked up sharply at Watari, about to speak, but stopped when he realized that Watari was already lightly dozing. That was fine with L—now he could get back to his puzzle.

_Raito, where are you hiding?_ he wondered. L had briefly considered going through airport records and seeing what tickets had cost 180,000 yen the day Raito had absconded Japan, but there were too many variables. Perhaps Raito had purchased a business seat. Perhaps he'd tipped his attendant. And there were several tickets that cost about that much money.

L sighed, glaring at the computer in front of him. Useless it was without any network capabilities. It wasn't even as though L could get any new CCTV footage or traffic cams or anything _useful _when he was 45,000 feet off the ground and far away from any _ice cream_. Curse modern travel. Damn the _need _to travel. And damn Wammy's for requiring his presence. He wanted nothing more than to immerse himself in this intricate game of hide-and-seek where neither side knew all of the players, and the hiding places could be all over the world.

It was thrilling, and at the same time disheartening, that even if L managed to figure out where Raito had gone when he bought the plane ticket, there was no guarantee that Raito had stayed there. In fact, if he were smart (and he _was_), Raito would constantly move around to avoid capture. Actually, maybe Raito had just made one round trip—gone to wherever the hell he'd gone to, then cycled back to Tokyo by plane or car or boat or hell, instantaneous teleportation for all L knew.

But L needn't think about that right now. Because he was feeling crazy and cooped up and irritated as it was without adding paranoia and the possibility of innovative technology to the mix. Right now he just needed to think about how to determine Raito's initial location. He would need a visa, a passport, money, probably further ID, and maybe even a birth certificate, depending on what country he was flying to. Did any of that help L?

Not really. No.

Fine then. What else?

There were security checks he had to get through—but as long as he didn't insist on carrying any weapons, he shouldn't have had much trouble with those. He would have to pass a medical exam—or fake a medical exam, so they could be sure he wasn't bringing disease into other countries. Again, however the thoroughness and records of those exams varied from nation to nation.

He would need a reason. They didn't let just anyone through. And he couldn't have said that he was going for business. He was too young, and he couldn't fake being much older. Vacation was out too, since he really was just seventeen, and he looked a bit younger. If Raito was smart (and he _was, damn it, _he _was_), he wouldn't have tried to pass himself off as any older than eighteen. And since it was the end of January, he would still presumably be in school, particularly in Japan, where school was so predominant . . .

What reason could he give them, then, if business and pleasure were both out? He had to declare a reason, and he wouldn't want it to seem even the slightest bit suspect, because it the police had reason to search his guise further, they would probably find out that his carefully constructed ID was false, and then he would be in a whole heap of trouble.

School was a possibility, but also unlikely, since he would be switching mid-semester, and again, he didn't have much reason. Visiting family was also out, since if they pried, they would discover that his family was right there in Tokyo, looking for him. And that road again ended in trouble.

So if he wasn't going for a job he already had, and he wasn't on vacation, and he would have to pass himself off as graduated . . .

He could have stated his reason as going for a new job. That was possibly. Very plausible. He would have had to actually set up a job wherever he was going, of course, since security was in the habit of checking stories, but that wouldn't be a problem for him. Finding a job with his intelligence would be easy.

And Tokyo's airport was fastidious in recording the interviews they held with their passengers, however brief.

Yes. This could work. L could access the airport's records and look for a passenger that was traveling to Western Europe or the U.S. in search of a new job in the correct time frame. That would narrow things down considerably, and L could even discover what alias Raito had chosen to go by.

L turned back to his computer, fingers flying to the keys, poised, ready, waiting for his program to—

But his program wasn't going to. Because it couldn't.

Because he was 45—no, 42,000 feet up in the air, and he had no network connection, so he couldn't hack the Tokyo airport records, so he _couldn't figure out his puzzle._

Damn it. Damn everything. And everybody.

L made a quiet noise of frustration—which he absolutely _refused_ to label a growl, even though that was probably the most apt description—and fell back into his seat, letting his hands fall to his sides. He glared tersely at Watari, but stopped almost immediately since it had no effect on his inert form.

This was going to be a very long trip.

* * *

><p>Ten hours, forty-seven minutes, and nearly sixty seconds later, L was standing rather impatiently next to a chatting Watari and Roger, waiting until the clock struck exactly nine a.m. and he could leap onto his computer.<p>

They had arrived at Wammy's late last night—or, rather, very early the next morning, and L had sped up the stairs to his own room and had opened and set up his computer, waited for the network to connect, and then had—been rewarded with nothing.

He'd been nearly at the end of his considerable patience when Watari had remembered that the orphanage had shut down the wireless connection completely after it had been discovered that Matt and Mello were using to hack into various computers—including L's.

Irony was a son of a bitch, L thought.

So L actually had to wait, _again_, for the computer lab to open, and even then it was probably going to be torture because they had _dial-up, _for God's sake. And it wasn't as though they could open the lab early, either, because the computers were time locked more securely than most Swiss bank vaults—again because Matt could hack anything with just about any technology—laptop, PSP, abacus. Damn him.

In retrospect, L probably could have taken a few hours the night before to set up his own network, but he'd had absolutely no patience left, so instead he'd drank herbal tea and had gone to bed angry for a few hours.

It seemed as though the _world _was working directly in opposition to L's wishes, and he wasn't even pretending to be interested in the conversation Watari and Roger were having about the method they used to hire staff members ("Random cryptograms placed all over the internet; if they can solve them and solve the riddle hidden in them, then they know where to come for the interview!" Roger had said excitedly. L had actually had to suppress the urge to hurt somebody.)

And finally, God, _finally_, L heard the serene grandfather clock in Roger's office chime nine o'clock, and he stood and excused himself before hurrying from the room. As he did, he heard Watari chuckle and begin to amicably explain his edgy behavior that morning. L would have to have a little talk with Watari about oversharing. But that was going to wait, because he was close to the second floor, where the computers were kept under lock and key, he just had to get through this crowd of children, who mercifully had never seen him before and so did not know who he was, and therefore would not bother him unduly.

After pushing past the miniature miscreants (L gave himself points for the alliterative nature of that thought, and then was immediately appalled with himself), L managed to stumble towards the second corridor on his right. Third door to the left—yes, there it was.

L stopped short in the doorway, pausing for a just a moment to catch his breath, and when he looked back on the experience, he was immensely glad that he had done so.

If he had just rushed into the room and had immediately slumped down at a computer, he likely would have completely missed one Yagami Raito, who was calmly sitting at a computer at the front of the room.

* * *

><p>AN: NO time to talk, late for school! Please review!


	4. Investigation

**Part 04 – Investigation**

**A/N: Just thought I should warn you, the T-rated stuff starts here. And then, like most of my writing, it's all downhill from here . . . **

* * *

><p>The way L saw it; he had a couple of options here.<p>

The first and most appealing was to walk up to Yagami Raito where he sat, complacent, at the computer, and kick him so hard it would genetically alter his _grandchildren_.

The second option, which was a little less extreme (albeit also less satisfying), was to walk over to him and make it clear that L knew exactly who Raito was, and to lock him up until L had a full confession of why he'd left home, how he'd discovered Wammy's, and possibly miscellaneous personal details involving relationships, eating habits, and taste in music.

A third possibility—which was perhaps the most mature and least agreeable option—was to simply sit in the room and observe him until L had learned as much as he could about him.

Unfortunately for L, a list of events that unfolded in very quick succession made it impossible for him to act on any of the above impulses.

Because as his brain began to process all of his options, his body acted all on its own, and L suddenly found himself starting and making a noise that was very much like the sound of tires crunching gravel.

And once he'd proved his own inanity, of course Yagami, who would be observant and curious, looked up and began to speak, no doubt to ask him if he wanted a glass of water or perhaps some anti-psychotics.

But L never did hear the end of that question, because instead his eardrums were assailed by the unmistakable, shrill voice of none other than Mello —_"L!"_, he shrieked — and suddenly, he found himself being grabbed very tightly around the midsection.

His body recognized the hug even while his brain was still frozen in its inexcusable _holy shit_ mode, and he automatically placed one hand on Mello's blonde head and patted him uncertainly.

It wasn't until a few seconds later that L was able to wrench himself away from the staring match he was currently having with Yagami Raito — wide-eyed on his part; confused and a bit uncomfortable on Raito's.

When he finally did, L reassigned his gaze to Mello and took a deep breath as he attempted to regain control over his body again.

"Mello," he said, managing to sound calm. He glanced into the doorway, and sure enough, Matt, Near, and a few other children were standing there, watching avidly. Mello was the only one brave (or perhaps uncouth) enough to actually approach and assault him.

Although, perhaps Matt would . . . No, by the expression on his face, L supposed that he was in the middle of a boss battle, which was only confirmed when Matt muttered, "_fucking Meta Ridley."_

Prising Mello away from him, L placed both hands on his shoulders and stepped back, keeping a firm grip in case Mello decided that assaulting him again would be an incomparably phenomenal idea. "Matt, Near," L said, nodding to them each in turn. Near nodded back and murmured L's name back before walking to a computer a few down from Raito and clambering into the seat. Matt's only response was a slight jerk of his head to show that he'd heard him.

"When did you get here, L?" Mello wanted to know, and L turned back to look at Mello. He removed his hands from Mello's shoulders and shoved them into his jeans.

"Only last night," he said. "Mr. Wammy and I arrived early this morning."

"Awesome," Mello said. "We missed you—well, I did, and Matt some. Not Near. He's a fucking robot."

"Language," L chided. He glanced at the other children and greeted them by name and received an array of responses, ranging from shy hello's to abrasive hugs. Once everyone had been greeted, L noticed Yagami Raito standing out of the corner of his eye.

"We should probably start class," he said, then paused and turned to L. "Unless you wanted to speak with them or use the computers?" he asked.

L shook his head, and then immediately started berating himself for having such pitiful communication skills. He waited until Raito had explained their task for the next hour and then had set them to it, before he approached him somewhat cautiously.

Raito was working at his own computer on some sort of virus, it looked like — but he glanced up when L appeared next to him.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice polite. His accent was impeccably English. Damn him.

L cocked his head to one side and studied him. So _this_ was the boy he'd spent the past few weeks obsessing over. He was . . . incredibly good looking. Much more so than his photograph, which had looked rather like a mugshot. And the half-smile he was giving L now . . . it looked startlingly real, as opposed to the empty grin he'd offered the camera.

Raito's smile slipped away, however, as L continued to stare at him, and finally, he spoke again. "You're L, right?" he said.

L dipped his head in response.

"You can have a seat if you like," Raito offered, gesturing to his right.

L hesitated, then pulled the rolling chair over to Raito, sat in his usual crouch, and continued staring.

After a few more moments, Raito looked up. "You know . . ." he said slowly, "I actually offered you a seat so you would stop hovering like an overgrown child." His voice was kind, playful, but his eyes were not. "Not so that you could do it in better comfort."

"Ah, I apologize," L said, speaking to him for the first time. He leaned a bit closer. "I did not know that you were so sensitive. I suppose that someone like yourself, who takes such obvious care of their appearance, would feel as though their modesty had been compromised if they were stared at too intently."

Raito's only response for a moment was to blink rapidly as he processed that. "I wouldn't exactly call myself sensitive, and I don't know that my request was unreasonable," he finally said. "I think that being stared at with eyes the size of dinner platters by someone who still sucks his thumb would throw anyone off."

L stared at him for a moment before he found his voice again. "Do you know who I am?" he asked curiously.

"L," Raito said promptly. "The children just said it."

"And do you know who L is supposed to be?" L prompted.

Raito stared at him. "No," he said, turning back to his computer.

Well, that was . . . that was _really irritating_. L had spent weeks trying to find out this child's location, obsessing over his intelligence, and _he didn't even know who L was_. "I see," L said. He paused, and then tried, "O-namae wa nan desu ka?"

Raito glanced at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't speak any Japanese."

L almost lost it. He didn't know if losing it would entail laughing hysterically or completely incapacitating Raito. Maybe both. But for the sake of the innocent children in the room, he held on hard to his sanity. "You look Japanese," he said bluntly. Rudely.

Raito didn't even look up this time. "Do I?" he murmured absently.

"The coloring's off, I suppose," L speculated aloud. "But it could easily be dye or contacts, or both."

"Are you quite finished hypothesizing over my appearance?" Raito asked, raising an eyebrow and turning in his seat to face L.

"Where do you get your unusual coloring from?" L prompted, ignoring Raito's question entirely.

"My mother is English," Raito said. "My father is Japanese."

"That would account for it," L conceded.

"Feel better?"

"No."

"Hmm."

There was a pause, and a rather awkward one at that. L shifted in his chair a bit, wishing that he had thought to bring some sugar cubes with him. Raito looked every inch as uncomfortable as L felt, though he made a valiant effort to keep his eyes on the screen. Finally, Raito gave up and looked at L again. "What would make you feel as though we could wrap up this scintillating repartee?" he asked.

L considered, and then his lips quirked into a small smile. "What is your name?"

To his credit, Raito didn't flinch, or hesitate. Instead, he smiled beatifically at him. (L thought with ill humor that Raito was anything but saintly.) And then — "I'm Light," he said.

* * *

><p>Whammy sighed. Deeply. L was . . . well, L was brooding, for lack of a better word. No, 'brooding' implied that there was still some dignity in the action. L was <em>sulking.<em>

And it was _pathetic_.

"I am certain that Roger had no idea of his unusual background when he hired him," Whammy tried.

L glanced at him despondently, but said nothing before he went back to glowering at his tea.

"And technically, you _could_ insist that he fire Raito."

L mumbled something nearly incoherent that sounded as though he were suggesting in no uncertain terms that, rather than losing his job, Raito ought to be shot.

"You can't kill him for relocating, L," Whammy said patiently.

L glared at his cookie for another moment before biting into it viciously and muttering, "How about for running away from home and teaching without a certificate, and underage, all of which are illegal?"

"Our orphanage does not require its professors to have a teaching certificate," Whammy said, sighing. "It's very much like a university in that aspect. Teachers don't have to be certified; they merely have to have a vast knowledge about their subject."

"Do our teachers have to at least be _eighteen_?" L asked scathingly.

"It's never been an issue, but at seventeen, it is legal to hire Raito in the U.K," Whammy said. "No matter his position. Now, if he were serving alcohol, it would be different."

"Is he?" L asked disinterestedly.

"Is he what?"

"Is he serving alcohol?" L clarified.

"L," Whammy murmured tiredly, fingers at his temples. "What kind of school do you think we are running here?"

L fixed him with a glare. "The kind that sends out anonymous cryptograms through net channels and offers jobs to anyone intelligent enough to crack them, regardless of age, history, or any number of psychoses they could be harboring."

Whammy paused. "All right," he said slowly, conceding to L's point. "But you should know, we do screen our teachers. No one here is psychotic."

"Someone intelligent enough to crack your cryptogram may very well be intelligent enough to pass your ridiculous little psychological evaluation," L said scathingly.

Whammy sighed and finally sat down. "I think, L," he said tersely, "That you are more concerned with the fact that you were unable to solve your mystery than you are about these children's safety."

"I was getting very close to solving it!" L said defensively. "I was going to look at security records—and I probably would have discovered his location, had an internet connection been available to me."

Whammy sighed again. "L, this is ridiculous. You were sulking before because you couldn't find him and now you're sulking because you _have_."

"L does not sulk," L muttered to his now-cold tea.

Whammy almost answered that, but caught himself in time. "Very well," he said, standing. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Yes," L said bad-naturedly. "I need to know why he came here in the first place."

"Anything that _I_ can provide for you?" Whammy clarified.

"No."

"Fine. Then before I take my leave, let me say that you are not here to obsess over some underage Japanese runaway. You are here to observe Mello and Near and choose your heir between them."

"And Matt," L said sullenly.

"And—well, yes, I suppose so. He's asked, though, that he not be considered in the running."

L sighed and gave up trying to get Whammy to either agree to help him investigate Raito, or leave L alone entirely. He looked up resignedly. "How do Mello and Near feel about his surrender?"

Whammy frowned. "They do not know, I think."

"How can they not?" L asked, surprised. "If he is no longer a candidate, then his scores and grades would no longer be posted, correct?"

"No, it's been business as usual. A year ago or so, Matt went to Roger privately and requested that he remove him from the running, as silently as possible."

For the first time in weeks, something besides Raito piqued L's interest. "Why? He must have given Roger a reason."

"He did not," Whammy said. "Or, rather, he gave several, but in such a way that Roger could tell that he was lying."

"How was that?" L asked, biting into his cookie more calmly now that Raito (and his own failure) was no longer the focus of his attention.

Whammy tried to hide the relief that he felt at L's interest in a new subject. "When Roger asked why, I believe Matt said something along the lines of: 'It's too stressful; I'm more interested in other pursuits right now; I have a defeatist attitude; Video games trump anything you can offer me; Mello's bribing me; Near's threatened to use his psychic powers to make my head implode if I don't. Take your pick.'"

L was smiling slightly by the time Whammy had finished. "He really said all that?" he asked.

"There were several others, but I forget all the excuses Roger related to me."

"Hmm," L said. "I think, then, that I would like to meet with the three of them, one at a time."

Whammy nodded, this time unable to contain his relieved expression. Before he could answer, however, L interrupted.

"And you can stop that ridiculous expression of relief, Whammy," he said. "Because I am still fully intending on discovering the motivations behind Raito's disappearance. In fact—I think that perhaps speaking with the boys' professors would be an excellent idea."

Watari's small smile faltered. "Very well," he said. "I'll just go get Near, then, shall I?"

L shook his head. "I think I'll meet with Matt first," he said. "If that can be arranged."

Whammy nodded and left the room, a small frown of discontent on his features, and L logged onto his laptop (which now had its own wireless connection, thank you very much), and began studying Matt's records.

A half hour later, Matt walked into the room, his eyes on his surroundings instead of his handheld, for once. "Hey, L," he said, his voice a practiced, casual tone.

"Matt," L said, nodding in greeting. "Please sit down."

Matt followed his directions, and took a cup of tea when it was pushed at him. L stared at him as Matt's eyes roved the room. His gaze flitted from the wide windows to the piano in the corner and the bookcases that trailed the three walls, and then examined the furniture, the china on his teacup, and even the light fixture on the ceiling. L was impressed by how at-ease Matt seemed. Not because he was actually at-ease. The slight crease in his forehead and the barely noticeable movement of his thumbs—which were craving a game, L was sure—belied his nervousness. But his acting was very good nonetheless. His expression was more or less calm and vaguely interested as he studied the room and eventually, L himself.

L allowed Matt's gaze to travel over his person. Matt's eyes rested on L's thumb between his teeth and the position in which he said, as well as his carefully blank expression and the cookie clasped between two fingers in his other hand. His eyes dipped down briefly to L's toes, which were idly playing together—something he did when he was thinking—and then back up to his face. Once his examination was complete, Matt smiled.

"So, what's up?" he asked.

L couldn't help but compare Matt to his competition. In this situation, Mello would have immediately begun talking, and would have consequently missed his opportunity to fully take in his surroundings. Near, on the other hand, would have observed everything in painfully exact detail, but would not have taken action until L had initiated the conversation. Matt did indeed seem to be a happy medium. He took his time, didn't feel pressured to speak, to grab L's attention, but was not too timid to take control of the conversation after allowing sufficient time for L to do so, if he wished.

"I wanted to speak to each of you—Near, Mello, and yourself—about the reason why I am here," L said.

"Oh," Matt said, and waited for a moment both to process the information and to allow L to clarify. L stayed silent, more curious as to what Matt would say. Eventually, he spoke again. "Why are you here?"

Very good. Asking a question of L without giving any of himself or his assumptions away. Perfect balance of discretion and nerve. Something L himself had never been able to strike precisely, even with years of practice. "Assuming everything goes smoothly, I am here to choose whom I wish to take on the name of 'L' in the case of my death or retirement."

Matt's face molded into a gentle grin, which, while L did not doubt was intentional, seemed completely natural. "Gotcha," he said. "So what do you want to know?"

L cocked his head to one side, curiously. "Know?" he repeated.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I mean, I'm pretty close to Mello, and Near and me aren't exactly friends, but he tolerates me better than anyone else."

"You think I called you in here to discuss Mello and Near?" L asked casually.

"Sure," Matt said.

"I did not," L said bluntly.

Matt stared at him, momentarily thrown, before he shrugged and looked down. Well, he was only eleven-years-old. L couldn't expect perfection from him. "Well, then . . ." he said slowly, "if you didn't want to talk about them, why did you call me in here?"

"To talk to you," L said. "About you."

"Me," Matt echoed. "Why about me?" He was starting to look a bit strained, and his fingers grew more restless as he twisted them together, folded them in his lap, adjusted his sleeves, tugged at his shirt. But he kept eye contact.

"Because while Mello and Near do generally score higher than you do, you still have unusually high scores in your classes, and you receive better marks in some subjects."

"Just computers," Matt interrupted quickly. "Not other classes."

"I said subjects, Matt, not classes," L corrected. "While it is true that in any classes regarding technology, you are the best, there are some subjects which do not receive concrete grades in which you also excel."

"Like what?" Matt asked, curious besides himself.

"Personality, for one," L said.

Matt started laughing, which was not the reaction that L had anticipated. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You guys really grade our personalities?"

"In a way," L said solemnly. "Emotionally, you are most balanced out of yourself, Mello, and Near. And you are more personable than either of them."

"Mello has a really commanding personality," Matt argued.

"If it were to come down to followers," L said, "I have no doubt that Mello would gather more than either yourself or Near. But whereas people would follow Near because they would be intrigued and awed, and Mello because he is terrifying, they would follow you because you have the ability to actually make them like you. People would follow you and listen to you because they actually wanted to."

"Wait," Matt said, frowning. "Why are you telling me all this? It doesn't matter anyway, right? Because I'm not even in the running. It's between Near and Mello, yeah?"

"No," L said. "I think that, although your quantative scores are worse than either of theirs, your qualitative scores, which are arrived at subjectively, are far better."

"So you mean because I have a nicer personality, you still want to consider me as the next L?" Matt clarified, somewhat disbelievingly. He folded his hands together tightly in his lap as they became even more restless.

L glanced down. "Do you need something to do with your hands?" he asked, not unkindly.

Matt shrugged. "I just think better when I don't have to be totally still," he said.

"If you can find something that would occupy them, you're welcome to do what you need to think clearly," L said. "That's why I sit the way I do."

Matt nodded. "That's what I guessed," he said, reaching into his pockets. He pulled out a lighter and began to fiddle with it, holding it tightly between his fingers and then flipping it between them. His other hand rested in his lap.

L raised his eyebrows at the appearance of the lighter.

"Oh, I don't smoke or anything," Matt assured him. "And I don't, y'know, set stuff on fire. That's more Mello's thing. I just like how it looks."

"The fire?" L asked.

"Yeah, and the silver of the lighter," Matt said. "It's small enough to fiddle with, too."

"Why do you suppose you need it?" L asked.

Matt frowned, but he was just glad that the conversation had steered away from him being considered an heir of L's. "Dunno," he said, glancing down, watching as silver and red and orange flashed between his fingers. "I just feel restless sometimes, and doing something with my hands makes it easier to sit still."

"Do you feel worried or nervous?" L asked curiously.

Matt shrugged. "Nope, not really," he said, his casual voice returning now that they were back to a subject he felt comfortable with. "Just . . . you know how some people bounce their leg?" he asked. L nodded. "Just like that," he explained. "I've asked them why they do it, and they say they don't feel nervous or anything. My theory is that they do it—and I do stuff with my hands—in an effort to justify the space they take up. Most people, at least in Western society, feel like they're wasting time if they're holding still."

"So even if you're doing something pointless," L began.

"It's still better than doing nothing at all, yeah," Matt said, looking pleased.

"It's a good theory," L said. "Which brings me back to why the three of you are all being considered as my heirs."

Matt's half-smile turned into a half-frown and his brow furrowed slightly. "But . . . but I asked Roger not to include me," he said.

"Why not?" L asked.

"Because . . . I mean, no offense, L, but I just don't want to be you."

"None taken," L said lightly, although he was confused. "But why not?"

Matt shrugged and glanced back down at the lighter again.

"You gave Roger a number of reasons why you might not want to be the next L," L continued. "Were any of those true?"

"No," Matt muttered, still not looking up.

"Then what is the real reason?" L pressed.

Matt remained silent.

L leaned back and sighed. "Very well," he said. "Perhaps I will tell you why I am considering you, regardless of your test scores. As I have said, you are personable and easy to get along with. More that that, however, your acting skills are effortlessly impeccable, without any training or observation on your part. You seem to know what the best reaction to a given person or situation will be, and then you play that part. Even that wouldn't be enough—but it is not just that you play a part. You are genuine in all your interactions with the people around you, although your personality differs greatly from person to person."

"So how do you know it's genuine?" Matt asked, looking up.

"Because people like me, or Near, or Mello, can tell when people are lying to them, however small that lie may be. Even people of lesser intelligence can tell, although they often cannot pinpoint exactly what is off about you. If you were fake, you would put people off, rather than drawing them to you."

"Okay," Matt said slowly. "So I'm good with people. As L, you don't interact a whole lot with other people anyway."

"But that is by my own choice, since I am socially deficient and terrible at acting normal around others," L admitted. "And because I don't care about people, as a general rule."

"Still," Matt said. "That doesn't make me an ideal candidate for being you."

"That, combined with your ability to tell when other people are lying, and your scores, do, however."

"I thought you said my scores were lower than Mello's or Near's," Matt said.

"Yes," L said slowly. "They are." He paused. "Consistently."

"What?" Matt asked.

Again, only a minimal response. Matt was talented at not giving anything away. "Your test scores are consistently seven to eleven points lower than Mello's and seven to fifteen lower than Near's," L said. "In _every_ subject. On _every_ test."

Matt paused for a moment then started laughing. L had to give him credit—the laughter was only the tiniest bit strained. "You think I get lower scores on _purpose_?" he asked. "Why would I do that?"

"That is my question for you," L said. "Why would you deliberately make certain that you are a good margin away from Mello and Near, but still much higher than anyone else at Wammy's?"

"How would I even know what their scores were like enough to fake that?" Matt countered.

"Computers," L said simply. "You are best at them. Your scores are better than mine were. Hacking records should not be a problem for you."

"I didn't," Matt said.

"Hack the records?"

"No, no, I hacked 'em," Matt admitted. "Mostly 'cause Mello asked me to. But I didn't fake my scores."

"Matt," L said levelly, leaning forward so their gazes were locked on one another's. "I know you are lying. I am not asking if you faked the scores, since it is obvious you did. I'm asking _why_ you would do something like that."

Matt did not look away from L's gaze but the lighter between his fingers began spinning faster. Nervousness now really was showing on his face, in between his eyebrows, in the tilt of his lips, how his teeth were working on the inside of his cheek. Finally, he sighed and looked away. "I really-" he began, and then ended with, "Shit!" He broke his gaze away from L and looked down at his fingers which had been singed when he lost control of the lighter, which he had dropped and which had lit the knee of his pants on fire before falling shut.

Without pausing, Matt hit the tiny flame with his palm until it went out, which left him with one singed knee and one fairly severe burn on his hand and fingers.

He jumped up after a moment of shock and headed for the door, only to stop when L asked, "Where are you going?"

"To get this checked out," Matt said, waving his hand. "It hurts like hell."

"We are not done here," L said.

Matt gave him a pained smile. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Once my hand's fixed, you know where to find me," he said. And then he was gone.

L stood and walked over to the door and was about to open it when he heard Mello's voice, faintly.

"What the hell took so long?" he demanded.

"Dunno," L heard Matt answer. His voice held a perfect mixture of nonchalance and strain. "I didn't know it _was_ taking so long."

"Why did L want to see you anyway?" Mello asked.

L could practically hear the grin in Matt's voice. "To talk about you and Near, of course. I'm your only friend, after all, and Near . . . well, he tolerates me."

"What'd you say?" Mello asked.

Matt laughed. "Tell you in a minute, Mel, chill," he said, his voice light again, almost immature sounding. "I gotta go see the nurse about this."

"Fuck, Matt, did you burn yourself with your lighter?" Mello demanded, and L could hear the concern in his voice carefully hidden behind anger and derision.

"Yeah," Matt said, sounding sheepish.

"Fucking idiot," Mello muttered. "You were flipping it again?"

L couldn't catch Matt's response, as he assumed they walked away to go to the nurse's.

He slowly walked back to his chair. There was no doubt in his mind that Matt had burned his hand on purpose to get out of the conversation. Which led him to wonder what the answer was and why it was so bad that Matt had to burn himself to avoid discussing it.

And the consideration of Matt's avoidance made L think of Yagami Raito's disappearance and subsequent reappearance and _fuck_ if he didn't have two very frustrating, fascinating mysteries on his hands.

* * *

><p>AN: Hooray for swearing! It's my favorite! Anyways, here's the next chapter! I decided not to post on weekends, give myself a little break. But I think that this chapter really marks the beginning of the plot, so don't worry, it'll get a lot more interesting from here on out.

P.S. Raise of hands: Who thinks that L should chill the hell out and pretty much just grab Light and kiss the crap out of him?


	5. Competition

**Part 05 – Competition**

* * *

><p>L had always found the hum of computers to be a gentle, reassuring, and familiar monotone melody.<p>

However, he was currently so enmeshed in an absolutely horrifying entanglement of technology—everything from CCTV to Sanskrit cryptograms to revised C++ programming languages to the fact that Yagami pretty much _lived_ in the thrice-damned computer lab—that the hum of computers was now causing more of a nervous tic than a reassuring atmosphere.

He couldn't understand it. Technology had always been so kind to him; they had always had a healthy, requited relationship between the two of them—though L occasionally found himself having something of a sordid affair with sweets.

And it was no good asking technology what he had done wrong—it wasn't answering his phone calls, the lights were always off at its place, and emailing was just playing into its avaricious little clutches.

L sighed and then sat up entirely, rubbing absently at his eyes. He'd slept last night, and his current train of segmented nonsensical morning thoughts had just reminded him why he tried to avoid that sort of human pursuit.

Also, his mouth tasted really bad right now.

Damn mornings. To hell. Perhaps to the ninth circle of hell, where traitors were frozen up to their necks in ice.

L mumbled a few incomprehensible curse words in about four different languages and then headed to the bathroom, where he spent several minutes glaring at himself in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. He felt irritable and inexplicably exhausted. L realized that most people felt better after a good night's sleep. Most people, he knew, would wake up in the morning whistling cheerily and springing out of bed before they skipped off to the forest to feed the hapless forest creatures, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.

L felt rather ready to tear someone limb from limb. Also, he needed to think a whole hell of a lot less about skipping and feeding bunnies and deer. That wasn't really an L-like thing to do.

Now, if he were being honest with himself, L would have to admit that his irritation was due in part to Raito Yagami and his seamless disappearance and also in part to Matt, who managed to outwit him using _lighter fluid_.

If he were being honest, he would grudgingly agree that he was perhaps overreacting, and that he should probably just be grateful to have something entertaining to do—since he had expected Wammy's to be mind-numbingly dull.

Yes, if L were being honest, he would tell himself that he had no right to be upset with Raito—since L didn't yet understand why he'd run away—and no right to be irritated with Matt—since he really didn't know why Matt would be so vehemently opposed to receiving his title. He would have had to admit that it was mostly his injured pride that was fueling this horrid mood.

_If_ he were being honest with himself.

Mornings, thankfully, were not for honesty. Mornings were for misdirected frustration and unintelligible grousing and just general bad moods and bad breath and bad hair.

Speaking of which; another thing L hated about waking up in the morning after he'd slept in a bed: his hair. He wasn't vain, far from it (unlike that little narcissistic delinquent down in his computer lab). But he generally slept sitting in his usual position, just resting his head on his knees. Or, better yet, he didn't sleep at all. Neither of those had any real effect on his appearance. Apart from the dark circles, of course, but those weren't going away unless he slipped into a two-year coma.

When his head had spent a good seven hours being aggravated by a cottony pillow, however, his hair became something of a true disaster. Even Wammy, stoic though he was, laughed at L every time he saw the mass of flattened spikes and tangled strands. L was pretty sure that the occasional rodent took refuge in there as well.

Resignedly, L started up the shower and forgot entirely that Wammy's water heater was a bit older and therefore a bit slow to work. After emitting something that he would have labeled a shriek had it come from anyone else's lips—but which he would never, not even under torture, admit to releasing—L leapt back out of the shower and stared at it until the fiery heat from his glare kinetically warmed the water.

Or maybe the water heater kicked in.

The world would never know.

Showers, at least, were a good part of a standard morning routine. L liked showers, generally speaking. Specifically speaking, he liked showers here, in his own room, in this familiar bathroom. Although he was not opposed to traveling and in fact became bored out of his mind when he had to stay at Wammy's, he was always secretly pleased to be back for the first few days.

Once he was clean and his hair was presentable—that is to say, he allowed it to dry how it wished and hoped for the best—he dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Wammy, who had met him briefly in the hall, had set out something of a breakfast for him on the countertop, and he balanced himself carefully on a barstool before delving into a tantalizing slice of blackberry pie.

He was mostly alone in the kitchen—it was nearing nine o'clock and most of the children here had classes of some sort at this time. A few drifters slid in and out of his periphery, but he was left generally undisturbed as he continued to savor the sugary, flaky goodness.

Halfway through, he noticed the two little chalk dinosaurs sitting at the edge of his plate. They appeared to be a red Tyrannosaurus Rex and an orange brontosaurus. The vitamin bottle probably declared them to be cherry and orange-flavored.

It lied. They were gross-flavored, and L was certain that there had to be a better alternative. Wammy insisted that these were all-encompassing and mild, and that he hadn't found anything to replace them; L thought that Wammy was rather taken with the idea of feeding the world's three greatest detectives chalky-tasting children's vitamins. It was probably some twisted revenge for L constantly asking him to find exotic desserts.

He hefted the two little dinos in his palm and regarded them solemnly for a moment, and then glanced over at the medicine cabinet. It held an incredible variety of any and all medication that could be needed, including Tylenol, Pepto Bismol, Ritalin, some anti-depressants, and a variety of other prescription and over the counter medicine. And if it didn't contain some kind of _adult_ multivitamin that L could just _swallow_, well then, L just didn't know what this world was coming to.

Still holding the undignified dinosaurs in his hand, he stood and opened both doors of the cabinet, hopeful eyes scouring the first several shelves.

To no avail.

How could there not be vitamins in here? They held OxyContin in an unlocked cabinet (though in the administration's defense, the bottle was on the top shelf), for God's sake, but they couldn't keep some damn multivitamins in plain sight?

L glanced down distastefully at the pills in his hand, the colors of which had begun to bleed onto his skin like pale, dusty M'n'Ms. They seemed to be mocking him. But maybe that was just his frustration talking.

"I won't let you win," he hissed quietly at them, and then turned back to the cabinet, determined to take out every single bottle until he found what he was looking for.

On its way back towards the cabinet, however, L's gaze alighted upon something—or someone, whose presence was much more demanding than some silly vitamins.

It was Light, of course, who was looking at him in a mixture of amusement and slight concern. He also looked to be suppressing laughter, which was simply unacceptable.

"Are you all right?" Light asked, his voice deceptively calm.

L stared at him blankly. Why wouldn't he be all right? What was Light—oh. He probably heard L threatening his nutritional supplements. Lovely. "Yes," L finally said.

Now it was Light's turn to watch him blankly before he realized that L wasn't planning on elaborating. He shrugged , and then turned towards the refrigerator and retrieved what looked to be one of the healthiest meals L had ever had the misfortune to behold.

Light was eating grapefruit—really, he was. L didn't know of anyone who actually ate grapefruit for breakfast except women desperate to lose weight by torturing their taste buds. To supplement this acidulous affront to citrus everywhere, he added a carefully measured bowl of Raisin Bran (which was a double offense in L's opinion, as the bran was tasteless and sort of cardboard-y, and the raisins were the wrinkled, dated aftermath of a fruit that wasn't all that delicious to begin with). He balanced this with a cup of nearly-boiling coffee, which would have been perfectly acceptable in L's opinion had Light not taken it straight and black. Not even one sugar cube.

Light didn't even _look_ at the sugar cubes.

L felt a great disturbance in the kitchen, as if millions of sugary voices suddenly cried out in terror and then were suddenly silenced. He felt something terrible would happen if they continued to receive Light's indifference, so out of the goodness of his heart, he went over to the bowl and popped a few in his mouth. The universe seemed to feel somewhat better. So did L.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), walking over to the sugar bowl necessitated standing by Light while he retrieved his saccharine brethren. Light observed his sugar cube rescue and then gave him a look of mild horror when L crunched down on the two or three cubes residing in his mouth.

"I'm sorry," L said, though he was anything but. "I didn't realize that you wanted some." And without so much as a by-your-leave, L plopped the rest of the sugar cubes he was holding into Light's coffee.

In retrospect, L should have considered the fact that 'plopping' was generally followed by 'splashing.'

"_Ouch_! What the _hell_?" Light demanded, jumping up as searing coffee spotted his clothing and even some of the exposed skin on his arms.

L had no response for that, as he thought that an 'I'm sorry' would be both untrue and poorly received and maniacal laughter might draw undue attention. His lips, however, did quirk up at the corners and he brought one of his thumbs up to his lips to hide it.

Light stared at him for a moment longer before storming over to the sink and running a rag under hot water. "What the _hell_?" he was muttering, and L wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or not. He glanced over his shoulder irritably and demanded, "Well? What the hell is wrong with you?"

L allowed his eyes to widen. "I apologize," he said, his voice full of a fluffy innocence that he could see Light didn't believe for a second. "Did you need me to assist you in your cleaning process? You are unable to take care of yourself, perhaps?" L knew that the statement was somewhat ironic, as he had Wammy bring him everything from blankets to papers to croissants, but that was a matter of _choice_. And besides that, Light didn't know anything about him or his habits.

Light, meanwhile, was staring at him, his mouth hanging open slightly. L was about to comment on the possibility of small, unhygienic insects visiting his wide open trap before he shut it with a snap and clenched his teeth. He went back to dabbing at his shirt, a murderous glint in his eyes. "What is your problem?" he asked after a few more seconds, and his voice was audibly strained. "I don't even know you. Why the hell are you bugging me?"

L chalked up having a temper to Light's (admittedly short) list of negative attributes. "You don't know me?" L asked innocently. "Light, I introduced myself just yesterday. How could you have forgotten?"

"Oh, believe me," Light said with a laugh that had little to nothing to do with humor, "I haven't forgotten. How could I forget such a blatant infantile affront to polite society and sanity in general?"

"I am impressed by your ability to string long words together into a somewhat grammatically-challenged sentence," L drawled, delighting secretly in the pink tinge that marred Light's usually complacent countenance. He paused, and then continued, "Are you certain that English is your first language?"

"Quite," Light snapped, tossing the rag into the sink and muttering a string of decidedly foul words as he examined his ruined shirt. "Are you certain that humans were your first caretakers?" he rejoined. "Not apes or wolves or feeder fish?"

"Quite," L mimicked in a much calmer tone.

Light looked up from his shirt then and met L's eyes, which were alight with delighted amusement at this trenchant little tête–à–tête. Light's eyes were narrowed and _furious_, and L wondered briefly if he was going to hit him. _That _would be great fun. L made a mental note to try to get him riled up enough sometime that he would actually try to strike him. "What are you?" Light finally asked, and L blinked. That was not of the questions/comments/obscenities L had been expecting Light to throw at him.

"Beg pardon?" he asked.

"What are you?" Light repeated, his voice tight. "You're too old to be a student, and I'd know if you were a new teacher. You can't be administration—we have no openings. What are you doing here?"

"Ah, I see your dilemma," L said, nodding sagely. "I am . . . something of a tenant, I suppose. I lived here years ago, and Roger and Quillish agreed that I would be accepted back if and when I chose to return."

"So you just . . . live here?" Light clarified. "That's it?"

"Well, it is a home," L parried. "What else would one do in such a large place?"

"Where were you before you came here? The heart of the Congo, maybe?" Light muttered, ignoring L's question completely.

L considered not answering—and in fact if he looked at the clock he was rather late for a virtual meeting with the U.N. World Summit—but then he smiled again, watching Light's eyes widen slightly in alarm. "No, actually. I was in Tokyo," he said cheerfully, and while Light was still processing that, he nodded at him and exited.

* * *

><p>Later on, L was feeling rather good about himself. He'd managed to piss Light off very thoroughly, he'd spoken with the UN and had gotten them to calm down a bit about the threats of biological warfare on a global scale, and Whammy had brought him angel food cake drowned in both strawberry glaze and of course, the strawberries themselves.<p>

That was several hours ago, though, and L's stomach was now informing him that if he wanted his brain to continue working at breakneck speed (he was simultaneously plotting his next surprise attack against Yagami and working on the Matt Conundrum) he'd better get some sugar in his system STAT.

Accordingly, L stood and ambled into the kitchen. Later on, he'd remember that he'd been half-smiling, pleased with his progress that day, not a care in the world when he entered the room. He walked over to the sugar bowl, planning on extracting several of the sugar cubes, but when he reached it, it was empty. Strange—it had been full that morning. He frowned at the incongruity, but turned instead to the fridge which held the promise of cakes or at least pie.

Nothing.

Really and truly disturbed now, L checked the cookie jars on the countertops and found each one to be inexplicably empty. Desperate now, he turned to the cupboards in search of some standardized candy bars or perhaps even some finely ground baker's sugar. But there was nothing. And then L started to get it.

_Oh, no he did not._

Well, that was irritating, but it wasn't completely debilitating. L had his own private stash of sugar in his room in the case of Mello-emergencies or necessary late night snacking. He headed back up the stairs and re-entered his room.

The candy wasn't in a particularly clever hiding spot—just in a bin under his bed—but since his room was held to be somewhat holy ground, no one dared to venture in there.

Apparently, no one except for Yagami Raito.

Because when L unearthed the storage bin and eagerly tore off the lid, he found that the box's contents were not how he left them. In place of his typical sugary delights lay bags of dried fruit, of healthy granola, of canned vegetables.

Oh, no he did _not_.

L knew a hostage situation when he saw one—there was no way Yagami would throw all that food away. He would understand that it was wasteful, even if it was just sugar to him.

So in a combination of fury and defeat, L headed out of his room in search of Yagami. Who actually proved surprisingly difficult to find. He wasn't in his room, which was locked with a key code that L didn't have time to hack (his sugar levels were rapidly dropping, and if he didn't remedy it quickly he would only be thinking as fast as the average Harvard graduate and _no one_ wanted to see that). Nor was Light in any of the designated living areas or staff retreats. L considered knocking on all the bathroom doors but eventually decided that it would be too creepy, even for him.

He was just returning to his room in defeat, prepared to sit and wait until Yagami came to L on his terms, when he passed by one of the great bay windows in the living room. As he walked by them, he glanced despondently out at the late afternoon sun. It really was a very nice view, especially in the summertime, when—holy shit.

There he was. Outside on one of the tennis courts, apparently immersed in a highly original game of 'hit-the-ball-as-hard-as-you-can-against-the-fence.'

L didn't even pause to think about what he was going to do—which was unusual, considering that he was _L_—before he found himself walking determinedly outside.

He stood just inside the court and watched as Yagami exhausted his supply of balls. He had a great arm, and if his physique was anything to go by, he wouldn't have any trouble being an excellent player. As L watched him, he began to get the first inkling of an idea. And so it was with some confidence that he stepped out onto the court.

Yagami knew he was there, of course. L had seen his eyes briefly flicker over to where L stood when he'd first arrived. But he'd continued to ignore him as he probably imagined L's face on each one of the neon green tennis balls as he smacked them into the chain link fence.

Now that L was making his presence more conspicuous, however, Yagami turned to face him entirely, letting his racket hang loosely from his fingers as he turned his last tennis ball over in his other hand. L could see that Yagami was getting his own ideas for what to do with his last ball, so L quickly took control of the conversation.

"You took my sweets," L said, deadpan, knowing that he probably sounded like a possessed six-year-old. By the expression on Light's face, his assumption was correct.

"You ruined my shirt," Light responded, also tonelessly.

"I need those sweets," L continued.

"And I suppose Calvin Klein shirts just grow on trees, don't they?" Light snapped back.

"Do you have any idea how gay that sounded?" L asked, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

Light's face turned slightly pinker than it had been before from the exercise. "You owe me a new shirt," he said, "or the monetary equivalent thereof."

"Which would be?" L asked.

"60 pounds, plus tax," Light said promptly.

L pretended to think about that. 60 pounds give or take a few cents would not affect his bank account in the slightest. "If I give you the money, will you return my sweets?" he asked.

Light looked positively offended. "Certainly not!" he said. "You'll be repaying my ruined shirt; the sweets were payback for the rude treatment you've given me since even before we officially met."

"Unacceptable," L said immediately. Technically, he could go out and buy more sweets, or rather, get Whammy to go. But it was the principle of the thing. Plus, there had been several rare types of sweets under his bed from a variety of countries that could not be easily replaced.

"Fine," Light said with an indifferent shrug.

"I have a better idea," L continued, and he smiled a bit when Light, who had begun to turn away, turned back.

"Yes?" Light prompted.

"Tennis."

Light stared at him. "You want to play tennis against me?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Yes."

"As in, when I win, you'll give me the money for a new shirt? And if, by some miracle, you win, I'll give the candy back?"

"Yes."

Light grinned and L felt a bit of a competitive thrill steal through him. "Okay," he said. "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into."

L picked up a racket from the storage shed and headed to his side of the court as Light cleared off the excess balls and tossed one to L to serve.

"Oh, I do," L said. "Perhaps better than you realize, _Light_." And then he tossed the ball up, and served.

* * *

><p>AN: Tee hee, I love this chapter! And the one that comes after it! And the one . . . well, they're all pretty good from here on out! We're getting a bit closer to where we were before this story got erased, so I'm pleased about that, since I have an eeeexcellent idea about where all this is going. AND, for all of you who also read Silence: don't worry, I've already mapped out next chapter and am writing it right now. It's turning out nicely, so it should be up soon!

Anyway, hope you loved this chapter as much as I did!


	6. Aggravation

**Part 06 – Aggravation**

Contrary to popular belief, L actually enjoyed sports. He liked the running, the breathing, the thrill, the challenge. Not so much the sweating and definitely not the dependence and cooperation of team sports. Idiotic teammates had the unique ability to piss L off faster and to a more volatile degree than most anything else on the planet.

Solitary sports, then, like tennis or swimming, or golf, or even track, were things L had always enjoyed—since the entire outcome depended directly on his own strength and he didn't have to trust that someone was going to miraculously come through.

In curious accordance with popular belief, L was very much a rugged individualist, a jaded cynic when it came to humanity and virtue, and a bit of a bastard when it came to life in general.

All things considered, then, L didn't really try very hard not to grin when his ace shot straight past Yagami and rattled the fence behind him so hard that the metal practically sang.

For a moment, L was afraid that he'd broken his brain; Yagami slowly turned his head to watch as the lime green ball bounced smugly past him and back towards L's side. Just as slowly, he raised his disbelieving eyes to meet L's and for a moment he only stared, mouth slightly agape.

L's grin grew a bit and he looked down at the green ball; he murmured, "Fifteen-love," in his classically understated manner, before bending over to pick up the ball where it had come to rest by his foot like an obedient pet. When L straightened, ball in hand, he found that Yagami was much changed; he had asserted his stance again and his eyes, which only a moment ago had been wide and startled, were now narrowed and intent on the ball L was turning over in his hand.

"You're ready now, Light?" L asked, and though he had managed to swallow his grin, he couldn't help that his voice caught on the edge of desperate laughter.

Light nodded just once, just an angry jerk of his head as his eyes narrowed further and his feet spread another centimeter apart.

"Service," L murmured serenely, and sent another killer overhead straight towards Light's perfect face.

Light was apparently paying attention this time around, however, and he twisted out of the way with a dancer's grace and then spun and returned with a backhand. L was unexpectedly struck with a twinge of jealousy. If L had tried such a maneuver, he likely would have looked more like a newborn giraffe.

That inspired and scholarly thought flashed through L's mind the second before the ball bounced into his court and he stumbled to reach it; he just managed it however, and then their first rally really began.

L wasn't surprised that Raito should be so good; L already knew about all the championship games and the competitions. He wasn't even surprised that Raito was good enough to actually pose a challenge to him. If Raito hadn't, then L would have been sorely disappointed.

He was surprised, however, at how graceful Raito's movements were. Playing tennis looked like an art form on him—his swings were smooth and his actions overall all flowed together like a spellbinding, inimitable dance. L found himself entranced by Raito's fluidity, even (and perhaps especially) when Raito began to tire. His movements didn't become jerky and neither did his reactions slow, as L had assumed they would.

Instead, Raito compensated for his exhaustion by taking bigger steps, by hitting harder, with more desperation, taking more chances, flirting with the baseline and driving L to the edge of his capacity for speed and dexterity.

It was an interesting strategy, certainly. Raito should be preserving his strength at this point, since they were only 30-40, and there could be fifteen or twenty very long minutes left in this game. Instead, he sacrificed the strength he still had in order to make L tired and more prone to making mistakes. It was an all-or-nothing approach, and one that L might have adopted himself, had he not been so prone to caution in general. He nodded in approval as Raito threw himself towards the front of the net and chopped the ball so that it the ground too fast and too far away for L to reach.

"Point, and deuce," Raito panted, retreating from his position very near the net and placing his hands on his knees as he tried to recover.

L watched as Ratio rotated his shoulder carefully, and wondered with mild consternation if it was paining him. He hadn't detected any evidence that suggested that Raito had torn or otherwise injured it, but from the expression on Raito's face even as he turned away so L couldn't see it, L had to surmise that the last overhead had torn something.

"Light, are you injured?" he called.

Raito looked up from a water bottle he'd been gulping and wiped his mouth and forehead before answering. "I'm fine," he said tightly.

"We may postpone the match if you are not well," L said, trying to keep any derision out of his voice. Truly, he did want to postpone if Raito was hurt. It wouldn't be fair then.

But, "I'm _fine_," Raito snapped as he snatched up a ball and headed back to the center of the court.

"If you are certain," L said politely, shrugging.

"Kick his ass, L!" came the highly inappropriate shout from outside the cage. Ah, yes. They had somehow managed to acquire an audience, which contained virtually all of the students, about half of the teachers, one of the cooks, and Roger. It was embarrassing for L, though he didn't know how Raito felt about it. L gave the source of the shout—Mello, of course—a sparing smile before turning his attention fully back to Raito.

Raito looked a bit disconcerted when he examined the crowd, and L realized that he had somehow missed the fact that they had an audience. Well, they had been rather quiet, though there were a good number of them and they had been there for a few minutes now. Had he really been so intent on their game—on L—that he'd missed them completely?

How thrilling. L grinned at him and watched as Raito's startled eyes took in the change in his expression. L had been told that he looked rather like a goblin or maybe a patient from an asylum when he smiled, and he was rather pleased with the reaction that Raito offered him.

Raito's eyes coolly appraised L, and L knew that it wasn't just towards his smile that Raito radiated his disapproval. Raito's eyes started at the ratty, God-awful sneakers L had jammed his feet into on his way of the door, and then they skimmed up his body, up the loose, light-wash jeans that no doubt offended his delicate, metrosexual tendencies, to the white tee that made him wrinkle his nose slightly in disgust; across to the hand gripping the racket, where L somehow just knew he was examining the bitten nails; up to the pale skin of his throat and face, pausing at his unsettling smile again; up to gray eyes underscored with thousands of sleepless nights and finally to dark hair matted with English summer humidity and spiked with its own natural stubbornness.

L could see Raito reevaluating his opinion of him; though what conclusion Raito came to L did not know. Suddenly his eyes were shuttered again and he rotated both arms a few times before stepping up and serving.

L did his own evaluation as they played, his mind breaking all legal speed limits as he concentrated on the game, Raito's onceover, and his own speculation over Raito's slowing pace.

It looked as though L was right about his shoulder injury. Although his returns didn't change much in intensity or precision, L could see that each one cost him. He cringed each time he returned and when Raito wasn't watching the game intensely, L could see the pain evident on his features and in his erratic breathing.

L considered calling the game and insisting that they wait—but somehow, he was pretty sure that Raito would consider that to be a forfeit. And besides . . .

Well, L had always been a bit of a bastard. And frankly, with Raito injured, it just meant that he would have a better chance of getting his sweets back. Why not use his opponent's weakness to his own advantage?

L suppressed another grin as he ran in for a kill shot, copying a chop Raito had performed earlier in their game. He was careful to move fluidly, however, and to carry through so he could avoid the same injury that Raito was suffering from.

With his shoulder obviously paining him, Raito was too slow to catch the ball and it bounced once, twice, before skittering off towards the fence. Raito straightened and fetched the ball with a hard expression on his face. He tossed the ball over to L with surprising gentleness, and L smiled at him.

"Advantage, second player," he announced softly, and there were both cheers and groans alike from the fairly sizeable crowd that surrounded them. L surmised that some of the students were making bets, a hypothesis which was only validated when he saw Matt leaning against the fence, collecting cash and writing in a small notebook.

Raito's eyes narrowed, and before L could serve, he did something that L hadn't expected at all: he tossed his racket from his trembling right hand into his steady left and turned the racket over so it fit his grip.

L paused and raised an eyebrow, and Raito just shrugged as a small smile graced his features. "Ambidextrous," he murmured, raising his own eyebrows in challenge.

L actually almost laughed. He was quite certain Raito had never seen _The Princess Bride, _but _damn _if he wouldn't make a great Wesley. And apparently that made him Inigo? But he digressed. The real reason L was grinning was because he was really looking forward to decimating Raito in this finally rally. Raito had been just the tiniest bit slower, just an inch off, just a little too kind in his serves throughout the game, and L doubted that Raito would be able to catch up so quickly.

Still smiling, L was momentarily distracted by some creative profanity from Mello and the subsequent laughter from Matt, but then he shook his head and focused on the game. "Game point," he announced quietly.

This was possibly the last rally, and consequently the crowd was unnaturally quiet; it felt like he was inside a vacuum as L gently lobbed the ball up in the air and then cracked down on it with his racket. The resulting crack and smash of Raito's return was an incredibly gratifying sound.

It seemed like in this rally, everything was sight and sound. L zeroed in on the little green ball, listening when it pounded into the red clay of the court, hearing the pops as he and Raito smashed it towards each other; he had eyes and ears only for this game, and he didn't think he could tear his eyes away from the streak of neon if he'd been threatened.

In retrospect, L imagined that it was a bit like being on drugs or something. Then, though, it was poetry.

After several minutes of returns and volleys, L's eyes flickered over to Raito as he noticed a change in his stance, and he reacted completely without thinking as he saw Raito run in for another approach shot. His reflex volley surprised even him, since he was generally more cautious than this, but he supposed that Raito was really bringing out the competitive side of him.

Raito tried a drop volley, the softness of his return surprising and nearly causing L to overshoot his position. Instead, L managed to twist back and turn enough to hit the ball solidly over his shoulder. He whipped around to follow its path, and he turned just in time to see the frame of Raito's racket connect with the ball just as it came down for its second bounce. Raito tumbled after the shank, but his eyes followed the ball as it flew towards the net and almost—almost went over. Instead, it hit the top of the net and bounced back to Raito's side of the court with a decisive bounce or two.

Raito's mouth twisted into a grimace and he ignored L's hand when L offered it to help him up. He pushed himself up with shaking arms and climbed to his feet. His movements, L noted with pleasure, were considerably less fluid now, and he was covered in the red dust from the clay court.

"Good game," L said, trying and failing to hide the laughter in his voice. He wasn't trying to mock Raito, truly he wasn't—

Okay, he couldn't lie to himself. He was _totally_ trying to mock Raito, and it was _totally _working.

Raito looked up from his fingers' careful exploration of his right shoulder, and his eyes narrowed into veritable slits as he sized L up.

"I can assure you," L told him gently, "attacking me now would not be good for your arm or your reputation around here."

"I wasn't planning on attacking you _now_," Raito hissed softly. "I'll wait till you're sleeping, obviously."

God, he was pissed off. This was so _fun_.

"Probably also not a great idea," L said, grinning from ear to ear. Vaguely, he heard the crowd around them chattering excitedly, and some students had even run out onto the court to play with the genii's discarded rackets. He ignored them in favor of this wonderfully entertaining banter. "There are a number of students who would be very upset at having to attend my funeral."

Raito glanced around distastefully, his eyes falling on Matt and Mello who were alternately exclaiming excitedly about the match and collecting and distributing cash between students. "I can see that," he said shortly, and began to walk at a clipped speed towards the house.

L began to trail after him, fully intending to retrieve his candy, but instead he was ambushed by a very enthusiastic Mello.

"L, that was awesome!" he said, grabbing L's arm and dragging him back towards the court. "We knew you were gonna grind Light's face into the dust."

"Isn't Light your professor?" L asked, glancing down at him.

"Sure," Mello said agreeably. "But I hate computers anyway, and he acts like such a fucking girl."

Ironic, coming from an eleven-year-old boy who already showed a preference for tight clothing and long, silky hairstyles.

"Mello's just bitter because he sucks at hacking," Matt contributed, coming to stand next to them, and dodging the attack Mello launched at him for the comment. He held out Mello's share of their cash as a peace offering.

Mello snatched that and a few pounds from Matt's share and then turned back to L. "No, it's because he's a homo who acts like he's the fucking god of his own little world of prissy girl-men who walk around talking about Calvin Klein and complimenting each other on their ability to flip their hair."

There was a pause.

"Wow, okay," Matt finally said, not looking up from the PSP he'd extracted from his pocket when he'd put the money away. "Mello, you know that was only a tiny bit coherent, right?"

Mello looked as though he thought about tackling Matt before deciding that it wouldn't be worth it. "I'm just saying. He treats everyone like he's so much better than they are," Mello said. "So I'm glad L publicly humiliated him. Do you think next time you can make him cry, L?"

"He is better than you," a quiet, monotone voice interrupted before L could answer. "He's our professor, so it's only right that he understand more about computers than you do. Otherwise, he'd have no business here."

Mello's eyes flashed and his cheeks flushed. "_Near_!" he snarled, making the word a curse and starting to launch himself towards him.

Matt caught him around the midsection, one-armed, without taking his gaze away from his game. "Chill, Mello," he said, his grip tightening for a moment before relaxing. Mello looked as though he was contemplating running over to Near and performing a messy disembowelment anyway, but ultimately he just went with the always classy upturned middle finger and a brief staring contest before turned back towards Matt.

In the midst of the confusion, L had slunk off after getting Matt to promise to meet with him later that day in the library. Now, however, he headed towards Raito's bedroom. If that boy thought that he was going to get out of their bargain by running away, then he was going to be sorely disappointed. Also, L really would kick his ass if he didn't get what he wanted.

L was planning on first knocking and second hacking the code and third breaking down the door if Raito wouldn't open it. As it turned out, however, L didn't actually need to do any of those things, since Raito had (perhaps accidentally?) left his bedroom door cracked.

Before he even pushed the door inwards, L could hear muted cursing in several languages (including Japanese, the little _liar_), but as soon as he stepped into the room, Raito fell silent and glared up at him from where he sat cross-legged on the bed.

"How'd you get in?" he demanded crossly.

L jerked his thumb over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Raito. "Door was open," he explained tonelessly.

Raito glanced at it. "Oh," he said darkly, then returned to what he'd been doing before, which was ministering to his shoulder.

L couldn't have looked away if he had tried—Raito . . . well frankly, he had an incredibly good body when clothed. But now, with his shirt off as he tended to his right shoulder, with mussed hair and sweat-slicked skin . . .

Now, L's obsession with this boy took on an entirely unprecedented turn.

_Damn it_, L thought.

No, not quite.

_Fucking son of a bitch!_

Better.

L didn't get crushes—L didn't have time for such frivolous pursuits. L had a hell of a lot of information to sort through, including two mysteries here and innumerable others throughout the world. L didn't have time to pursue anyone, or to wonder what it would be like to run his tongue across the lightly tanned shoulder that was currently having medication massaged into it.

Suddenly, L realized that he had been staring at Raito's bare torso for perhaps longer than would be socially acceptable, and he raised his eyes.

Raito was staring back at him cautiously. "You done?" he asked acerbically.

L pretended to think about it, but when Raito's expression darkened further, he smiled and nodded. "Yes," he said. And then, thinking about social decorum, he added, "Is your shoulder all right?"

Raito glanced at his own shoulder distastefully. "Yeah, it's fine," he said. "It's an old injury—it'll be okay with a bit of rest." Then he looked back up sharply. "Why are you here, anyway?" he asked pointedly.

L smiled and crouched down on his bed; Raito scooted back, looking visibly alarmed. "I came for my candy," he said, glancing around the room as though he expected his sweets to come parading out as he called their name.

"Oh, yes, your precious sweets," Raito sneered, standing. "I have them and the stuff from the kitchen." He walked over to his closet and began rummaging around.

"If I may ask, why did you go to such lengths for revenge?" L asked.

"You may not," Raito rejoined. "Now be quiet or I won't give you anything."

L was not one to be deterred. "My silence was not part of our agreement, Light," he pointed out. He too stood and began rummaging around the room, looking for clues about Raito's history.

"Then talk all you want," Raito muttered, his muffled voice sounding disgusted. Finally, he emerged with a cardboard box simply overflowing with sugar.

It was beautiful.

"What the hell are you doing?" Raito demanded, dropping the box on his bed. "Stop touching my stuff!"

L backed away from the desk where he had been rifling through Raito's papers—which, unfortunately, had just been reports from his students. "My apologies," he muttered insincerely.

"God, you're so weird," Raito snapped. "Just take your sweets and get out."

L picked up the rather heavy box and headed for the door, but then he paused. "I enjoyed our game," he commented.

"I'm sure you did," Raito said sarcastically. "It's easy to like something when you're winning."

"I just meant that I enjoyed having you as an opponent," L clarified.

"I'm flattered," Raito said flatly. "Now get out."

"You don't _sound_ flattered," L murmured speculatively.

"Are you retarded?" Raito demanded.

"That isn't very nice at all," L countered.

"I'm not a very nice person," Raito all but snarled. "Now leave. This. Room."

"Oh, I did have something to ask you," L said, as though he'd just remembered. Before Raito could kick him out, he continued. "From where in Japan does your father come? I am familiar with the area, and you remind me of someone I know."

"I doubt you know him," Raito said, and L could barely pick up on the strain in his voice. "He hasn't been back in years."

"What city?" L repeated.

"It's none of your business," Raito snapped.

"Hmm," L considered. "I suppose you've never been there? It's a shame; Japan is a lovely country."

Raito's expression was becoming wonderfully strained. "Just leave," he finally managed.

L's lips quirked upwards at the corners. "Very well," he said. "I'm sure you need to attend to your wounded pride." And then he scurried out before Raito could change his mind about letting him leave without a beating.

All things considered, L thought as he headed towards the library, today had been quite a success. He'd managed to piss Raito off about as thoroughly as his abilities would allow, he had won a competitive tennis match, and he'd retrieved chocolate.

And so, completely unaware of just how committed to revenge Raito could be, L headed towards the library to talk to Matt.

* * *

><p>AN: Back when I first wrote this chapter, I had to do tons of research into tennis and whatnot since I've never really played myself. I think it actually turned out pretty good. Sorry if I got too into the technical terms, I tried to keep it pretty light!

Haha, light.

Okay, I'm as bad as L sometimes. Anyway. Now I'm off to school to study for finals, it would be a great bit boost to my self-esteem (hence, I would do better on my finals. Maybe.) if you reviewed!


	7. Retribution

**Part 07 – Retribution**

* * *

><p>Two weeks had passed.<p>

Matt was being . . . difficult.

No, more than difficult. Matt was acting akin to the result of the unholy coupling of a dodgy politician and a kit fox.

Everywhere L was, Matt . . . well, wasn't. If L came down unannounced to dinner, Matt had somehow darted out before he'd arrived. If L visited one of his classes, Matt was absent. The library was always conspicuously goggle-lad free; even Matt and Mello's bedroom was deserted when L came to call.

If L weren't so damn irritated, he would have been quite impressed and would have likely recommended that Matt be given some sort of privileges for his troubles.

As it was, however, he was losing it. And by _it_, he meant _his patience_, and by _losing _he meant . . . erm . . . _losing really, really fast._

Well, then.

At any rate, L had tried a number of ways to foil Matt's superior skills of circumvention—as previously noted, he had become much less reclusive, and had taken to popping up randomly at mealtimes, in classes, outdoors, in bathrooms, etc. He'd also tried having Roger or Wammy call/escort Matt to L's room, but he'd always managed to escape en route, and L never saw hide or hair of him.

And it wasn't as though L could use Wammy's vast and unnecessarily complex computer and camera network to his advantage. It wasn't working and hadn't been for a little over a week. That is to say, the cameras were on, they were recording and transmitting, but it was the wrong footage of the wrong times. The cameras recorded the ceiling, the insides of toilets, the distant horizon, that sort of thing. So L got some fairly spectacular views of sunrises, and some not so spectacular pictures of a variety of fecal matters, but no students. And certainly no Matt.

For security reasons, of course, it was impossible to physically adjust the angle of the cameras, so L had to content himself with the occasional glimpse of red hair to reassure him that Matt wasn't anything more than just a distant memory.

Or a sugarless-induced hallucination. The couple of hours he'd gone after Raito had stolen his candy had gotten kind of weird.

And speaking of Raito, he was also a bit . . . difficult.

In other words, Raito was sulking. His students hadn't reported any sort of abnormal behavior, but they were the only ones spared his ill-humor. Other professors confessed that he had been rather prickly lately, and he too was rarely seen at mealtimes. Apparently, Raito liked to lick his wounds in private, thankyouverymuch.

L had seen him practicing his overhead once or twice out on the tennis courts, but that was usually early on a Sunday morning, and Raito likely didn't think that anyone else would be awake. It was a safe bet, or it would have been had L not been living at Wammy's for the time being. L had considered going out to the courts just to get him riled up because God knew how fun it was to make that pink tint spread across his cheeks in anger or embarrassment as his eyes narrowed further and his lips twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace.

Okay, so maybe L was a little obsessed; he had everything about Raito down to a 'T,' from his schedule to his minute expressions, to little mannerisms, patterns of speech, and taste in music (he liked older rock and classical stuff, which L couldn't stand). L didn't see a problem with knowing his enemy thoroughly, but apparently Wammy did and as he was the one who did the shopping, it was his opinion that really mattered.

He'd told L to leave Raito alone after crushing him in the tennis match, though L had protested that the game had actually been quite close. To this comment, Quillsh had snorted and mentioned that he had seen the expression on L's face and it hadn't been one of perfect sportsmanship. L had no argument for that, since Wammy knew how childishly he liked to behave. Put simply, L was used to winning. When he did, it was no great surprise to him, and as manners had never struck him as vitally important—not like, say, knowing how to say the word 'chocolate' in thirty-seven different languages—when he won, other people could tell that it was merely something he'd anticipated.

Losing, however, was an entirely different story, which was why L was having such a hard time with the whole Matt-situation, and yes, a difficult time with the Raito-situation too.

While Matt was frustrating as ever, the aggravation surrounding the Raito-situation had been assuaged somewhat by L's domination in the tennis match. It had worn off all too soon, however, and now L was back to scouring the internet and his various databases, looking for reasons that Raito might have left, why his father reacted the way he did, why he went to such lengths to disappear, et cetera.

He was engaged in such an activity, actually, when Wammy walked into his room with afternoon tea. L noticed him out of the corner of his eye, but he was much too engrossed in a report a child psychologist had done on Raito's behavior when he was seven-and-a-half (as reported by a young Raito to said psychologist) to be bothered to look up.

Wammy set down the tray next to him and glanced over his shoulder.

L heard him sigh. "L," he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone.

L spun around in his chair to face the tea. "Thank you, Wammy," he said cheerfully.

"L," Wammy repeated. He sounded less patient now.

L looked up at him with wide eyes as he ground up a vitamin between his teeth. "Hmm?" he asked.

Wammy looked pointedly at the screen.

L glanced behind himself and then gave Wammy his most earnestly innocent look. "Apparently, this psychologist thought that there may have been grounds for believing that Raito had or could develop something of a Messiah complex. He is intelligent enough, and arrogant enough, though his doctor didn't know that he would necessarily care enough about people in general. He was quite self-centered you know."

Wammy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Something you have in common," he commented.

From somewhere inside the depths of his twisted soul, L managed to conjure up an injured look.

Wammy did not look amused. Or convinced, which would have been the second-best reaction. Rather, he looked sort of pinched and frustrated, which was how L himself was generally feeling these days.

This was not a great combination. It wasn't even a _good_ combination, or a _this could work out but it'll be messy _combination. It was a _poor _combination—since when both of their extensive patiences were shot to hell, the rest of the world generally went with them.

"L, this is getting a little out-of-hand," Wammy disclosed. "I thought that once you'd found him, this would pass."

L cocked his head to one side and set the teacup down on the platter. "'This'?" he quoted.

Wammy swept a hand toward his workplace, evidently implying the files, web browser, and creepily thorough search he'd been working with. "This," he affirmed.

"What is 'this'?" L inquired, resting his chin on his knees. It was taking a great deal of his nonexistent patience to humor Wammy with this conversation, and someone (Raito, probably) was going to suffer for it.

"Your obsession, to be brief," Wammy clarified.

"Obsession is a strong word," L remarked, glancing back at the computer screen where a seven-and-a-half year old Raito grinned toothily out from an old photo.

"What would you prefer?" Wammy asked tiredly. "Fixation, fascination, preoccupation, addiction, fetish?"

"You've been reading the thesaurus again," L accused mildly. He paused and cocked his head to one side. "And I think I would much prefer 'preoccupation,' thanks very much," he confided. "It's a nice, clean word with little to no emotional attachment." Yes, 'preoccupation' implied a fixation on an object rather than a person, and was therefore much more neutral, L thought to himself.

"And yet," Wammy pontificated, "an 'emotional attachment' is exactly what you have formed, against your better judgment I am sure."

L frowned. "Are you saying that it is somehow undesirable for me to form emotional attachments, Wammy?" he queried. "Because if so, I am afraid that you and I are going to have to part ways, as I find that I more often than not don't mind your company at all."

Wammy opened a closed his mouth a few times, then waited until he actually had something to say. This was as close as L ever got to declarations of affection or gratitude. "I suppose that I simply do not understand," he finally conceded. "There are a dozen or so cases that clamor for your attention, yet you chose to focus your extraordinary mind on reading old journals and reports of Yagami."

"I am attending to the cases, do not worry, Wammy," L reassured him. "I understand that my work mustn't suffer."

Wammy looked rather suspicious in light of the wheedling tone L's voice was taking on. "And what work have you got done today?" he asked.

"Do you mean today as in since the sun has risen, or today since midnight of yesterday?" L countered.

Wammy considered. "The former," he decided.

L was silent.

After a pause, Wammy spoke up. "Nothing?" he implored. "You've done _nothing_ for the past seven hours?"

" . . . Yes?" L knew this wasn't the right answer.

"_L_." This said with great exasperation.

" . . . Yes?" He was more certain this time; yes, he was L, what of it?

Wammy sighed and stood. "That is unacceptable," he said. "You mean to tell me that you have spent the entire day eating and reading about Yagami?"

"Yes." Not a question this time; L was sure about this one.

"L, this is not what you're being paid for; what you've been trained for."

"I do not mind the pay being taken away so much," L admitted. "I have little use for how much money I have. The numbers stop making sense after awhile."

Wammy . . . appeared to have no response for that.

"And as for my training," L continued, "I take issue with that comment as well. I think that this is exactly the sort of reaction I am supposed to have, merely in what you perceive as the wrong context. This—the examination of every tiny, seemingly insignificant detail, the picking apart of expression, motivation, and history—are all very much the most basic foundation of my work as a detective. You simply do not see a place for it outside what you have designated as my _work_, versus my _life_."

"That sounds about fair," Wammy conceded.

"And you still do not think that it is a good idea?" L asked.

"I think it's intrusive," Wammy explained. "I think that he hasn't provoked you, he isn't a criminal, yet you're dogging him like he is one. And if he knew, he'd be quite upset."

L's smile was hardly noticeable, but it was also positively _evil_. "He already is quite upset with me, Wammy," he commented. He didn't really try all that hard to keep the smug overtones out of his voice.

"So you think it's a _good_ idea to keep provoking him?" Wammy asked.

L shrugged and smiled. "As you said," he reminded him, "he _doesn't _know, so no harm done."

"What happens when he finds out?" Wammy challenged.

"I suppose he'll be more upset," L said airily. "I am not afraid of him, Wammy."

"L, he stole your candies because you got coffee stains on his shirt. Can you imagine what lengths he'd go to for revenge if he knew all that you were doing concerning him?"

L paused to imagine. "I'm sure I can't," he finally admitted. "And I'm sure that I don't want to anyways. Either he'll find out or he won't. And I assure you, I can handle both scenarios."

Wammy looked unconvinced. The brightness of L's innocent smile got turned up a few notches. Finally Wammy's shoulders sagged, signaling his defeat. "You're an adult, L," he said. "I suppose if you believe that it is worth the risk, then I have no choice but to watch you choose this."

L looked perfectly happy with that. "Good," he remarked. "Glad we got that cleared up then." He started to turn back to his computer, but Wammy spoke again.

"About Matt," he began. L scowled and reached for one of the cookies on the tray.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Roger has requested that you take a short break from hounding him," Wammy reported. "He says that he's stopped coming to classes and to most meals, and he believes that it is because he's afraid that he'll run into you."

L frowned. "Wammy, it is not as though I'm going to attack him when I see him. He promised he'd meet me to talk, and I intend to make him keep that promise."

"That is apparently exactly what he is afraid of," Wammy answered. "I think that he's worried that if you only speak to him, Mello will notice and become upset with him."

"Why should Mello be upset?" L queried.

"Because he'd be jealous of Matt," Wammy explained. "Honestly, L, you must understand the boy. Mello's emotional, he gets upset easily, and you are his role model. If he felt as though you were neglecting him in favor of Matt, he'd be furious."

"With Matt," L finished. "Not with me, though."

"Exactly," Wammy stressed.

L was silent for a moment. "I see," he finally said. "I suppose that I have an obligation to talk to Mello and Near at this point, since technically they are ahead in the standings."

Wammy looked relieved, though he said nothing to suggest it. "I think that would be wise," he agreed. "It would make everything look a great deal fairer, at any rate."

L nodded. "Very well," he said. "I'll speak to them tomorrow." He looked back at the computer. "But for now . . . I think that I will finish my research."

Wammy's lips twisted downwards in an expression of disapproval but he said nothing, so L happily turned back to his mystery and once again began picking at the knot that was Yagami Raito.

* * *

><p>L had every intention of following through with his promise to speak to Mello and Near the next day.<p>

Pity 'tomorrow' never came.

Or, rather, it did; but circumstances were such that doing anything other than furious pacing, ranting, cringing, and maybe softly weeping was impossible.

Perhaps some explanation would be in order.

L took a short nap the next morning, from 3:30 a.m. to nearly 7:30 a.m. When he woke up, it was exactly 7:22, and he immediately switched his locale from the bed to the shower, where he proceeded to wake fully.

His shower was over by 7:31, and by 7:39 he was done with his morning routine altogether.

He was on his way to breakfast at 7:41 and ran into Wammy at 7:42.

By 7:45, he had reversed direction and was on his furious way to Raito Yagami's bedroom. Upon arriving and finding the door locked, L put to use his expert detective skills in order to open it and consequently pounded on the door until a very sleepy Raito Yagami yanked it open in a huff.

Oh, right. Saturday morning.

Well, what the fuck ever. This was _big_.

"L?" Raito demanded when his tired brain finally caught up with the proceedings.

"_You_," L hissed.

There was a beat. "Me," Raito finally agreed, sounding quite convincingly confused.

L was not fooled. "I don't think that you fully understand what you have done, _Light_," L threatened, speaking Raito's name with just a hint of a Japanese accent.

Again, Raito paused before he spoke again. "Are you on drugs?" he asked eventually.

L pushed his way into his room. "I do not know how you hacked my computers' systems, but I can assure you that it will not be happening again."

Raito's expression held a pale ghost of a smile, but he quickly banished it. "What do you mean, _L_?" he asked, putting a heavy emphasis on L's name in turn.

L brandished the manila folder he was carrying and very nearly hit Raito in the face with it.

Total accident.

He tossed it down on Raito's desk, and upon impact it discharged its contents messily onto the dark mahogany wood.

Several pictures came flooding out, complete with explanatory text and even a disc which no doubt contained at least a part of whatever L was upset about. Raito gingerly and without looking away from L leaned over and picked up the first paper between two fingers, as though he were afraid that it was laced with some covert poison. Considering what the picture displayed, it was probably a safe bet. At any rate, Raito took one look at the photo and began to laugh.

L was not amused, which was happening more and more often these days. He didn't even care, hardly even noticed, that Raito's eyes positively lit up when he laughed; it didn't matter anyway how white and straight his teeth were; it was inconsequential that his already tan skin turned golden as he sorted through the documents and kept up a steady stream of laughter.

It didn't matter because at this point, L was _pissed_.

"I like your new look, L," Raito announced cheerfully as he skimmed a copy of one of the emails in the packet. He held up a photo. "This is quite visually stunning, I'll admit," he added.

L looked once more in horror at the picture of a glittery, flower-clad pink letter 'L.' He snatched the photo away and then glared at Raito. "I'm certain that you would think so, considering your own fashion preferences," he snarled, glancing down at Raito's matching set of baby-blue pyjamas.

His insult didn't even dent Raito's grin. "I don't understand why you'd be so upset, though," he mused. "It's not as though anyone else has seen this," here he paused dramatically, "or _have_ they?"

L's eyes were slits of absolute fury. "You are _evil_," he informed Raito. "Evil and twisted and so _wrong_. Do you have any idea what having _this_ as my signature will have done to my reputation?"

"Probably not more than this email will have done," Raito suggested, grinning wider still. He picked up another document and skimmed over it.

L grabbed at that too, but Raito pulled it away and began to read aloud.

"'Leaders of the World'," he began, then paused. "That's nice," he commented, then darted away from L and continued. "It's a good salutations, if I do say so myself. Now, then, 'Leaders of the World, I feel that things between us have been much too casual as of late. In order to rectify our current undesirable situation, the following stipulations are immediately in effect.

"'First, you will address me as Sir L, and anything less than this will not be tolerated. Master, Highness, and Lord God will also be acceptable. Second, I demand that in every meeting in which my laptop is present, all those attending will lie prostrate on the floor as a show of respect. Third, do try not to contact me with the colorless, routine, and altogether plebeian cases that now decorate my inbox. I mean _you, _the Japanese government. To put it simply for you, these cases are _boring_, and I will have none of them. A bare minimum of four people in two weeks must have been killed in order for me to even consider taking on a case, and those must have been in very interesting ways, like their body being cut to shreds and their limbs being hung on ceiling fan blades with pink ribbons, for example.

"Sincerely, L.

"'P.S. And kindly don't contact me on the third week of each month. It is my special woman time and I tend to get a bit cranky. Thank you.'"

By the end of this, L had buried his face in one of Raito's (incredibly soft and silky, but that wasn't the fucking _point) _pillows and had attempted to drown out the horrors of the letter by groaning loudly every other phrase. When he was certain Raito was done, he raised his head and snatched at the letter.

Raito gave it over amiably enough. "Have it," he said with an air of one bestowing a great gift upon a subject. "Though by the sound of the header, most every world leader has read it by now." He paused, then continued. "It can't matter though," he commented, "since surely you've never acted irrationally in the past and they'll never in a million years think that you could have written this!"

"Even if they don't," L snapped, "they'll still realize that someone or some_thing_ has hacked my system, and that may get me in more trouble than the alternative!"

Raito made a _hmm_-ing sound between pursed lips as he examined the documents. "Well, then, at the very least, I suppose that at least we've learned not to be a complete _asshole_ to a total stranger before we know of what they are capable, haven't we now?"

L didn't stand there with a wide-open trap. He didn't open and close his maw like a goldfish. He didn't even stare stupidly. Because those were not activities L ever engaged in, regardless of what may or may not have been extenuating circumstances.

Instead, L stood very still and racked his brain for some sort of comeback, something harsh and quick and biting he could throw back at Raito for this gross overextension of "justice." Coming up short, he instead dropped into a crouch and kicked up, hard.

There was a satisfying _crack_ as his heel connected with Raito's jaw, and the boy was thrown backwards onto his bed. He jumped right back up though, and despite the fact that blood was dripping from his lip where he must have bitten it, he was grinning, though it had gone cold by more than a few degrees.

L would later admit to himself that the only reason Raito's well-placed punch (right to his eye, the _bastard_) landed as hard as it did was because L was suddenly struck by how his eyes were bright and alive with a furious, white-hot glow that seemed to freeze L in his tracks. He found himself entranced by the grace of Raito's arcing arm, and he followed its path right until he couldn't see anymore.

Once he'd been knocked back, it was very much like a spell had been broken, and L engaged once more, sweeping his leg under Raito's own, toppling the boy to the floor, where he proceeded to kick him hard enough in the ribs that he heard all the air go out of his chest with a _whoomph_.

By the time Raito looked up, L was already on his feet, and he had to roll to avoid another foot to his ribs. Or groin. He wasn't totally sure where L was aiming, and he frankly didn't really want to know.

He jumped to his feet, wincing as his bruised ribs complained rather loudly. He told them firmly to shut up.

He dodged another of L's kicks, eyes widening momentarily at how close his (very good-looking) face had come to touching L's foot, which was not exactly what he would call the very quintessence of sanitation; then he lashed out again, and L dodged again, and he had just grabbed L's foot (oh God oh God oh God it was so _dirty_, must wash hands) when suddenly his door swung inwards.

In the doorway stood a very angry-looking Quillsh Wammy.

Raito, who had been in the process of jerking L's leg forward to topple him over, suddenly let go, which basically had the same effect as the jerking motion, and L fell into an expert split.

Even with a furious old guy staring him down, Raito couldn't stop laughing. After a moment, though, he realized that it wasn't _him_ Quillsh was glaring at.

It was _L_. Which was even _funner_.

L gingerly picked himself up and turned towards the doorway to see what had interrupted their fight.

Ah. Wammy. And he didn't look happy.

"L, may I have a word?" Wammy asked, his voice like ice.

Ooh, not good.

L nodded and in a rather mutinous manner shuffled unhappily towards the door. He spared a brief glance over his shoulder to reveal a still-laughing Raito. L was torn between fury and . . . well, put simply, a misplaced and powerful desire to pin him to the bed and . . . well, you know.

This was all _so wrong_.

* * *

><p>AN: Hahahaha I loved this chapter! Man, I almost forgot about the joy it gave me while I was writing it back in the day! Well, not much to say here; I'm in the middle of writing the next chapter of Silence and it's being a little monster. But never fear, I shall post it soon! And I'm also working on the plot for this story; it should turn out beautifully, though a great deal less complex than Silence!

Hope you loved this as much as I did!


	8. Suspension

**Part 08 – Suspension**

* * *

><p>When L had been a child, he'd spent much of his time alone. He'd had plenty of opportunity to play with the other children, but he'd preferred his own (and Wammy's) company over that of his peers'. He'd never been a particularly trouble-bound young child, but he had been quite willful; he just failed to see, for example, what was so wrong about eating what he wanted when he wanted it, so long as it did not interfere with his physical well-being and his mental faculties.<p>

He also failed to see how age was any kind of qualification for competency. In his time, L had met and convicted a lot of really stupid adults. He'd also convicted a lot of really brilliant adults, but they had been disgusting human beings nonetheless.

By the time L was about twelve years old, he'd already begun solving minor cases, and had appropriated a somewhat severe sugar addiction, unpredictable insomnia, and what Mr. Wammy had liked to call 'an attitude.'

L wasn't really sure, even now, what exactly that was supposed to mean.

By Wammy's definition, _attitude _meant what he viewed as disrespect and a propensity for taking delight in infuriating police chiefs and country leaders. _Attitude _meant that L, despite proper (albeit unorthodox) upbringing, chose to rile up his superiors just because he could get away with it. _Attitude _meant insatiable curiosity in all things; it meant going so close to the edge of the rules that he sometimes fell straight over the cliff. It meant staying up till all hours even after days of staying asleep, just because Wammy had told him to go to bed; or using quick, biting comments towards his less intelligent and semi-averse-to-working-with-him co-workers because he was tired of their stupidity.

In short, according to Wammy, _attitude _meant doing exactly what he was doing right now to Raito Yagami.

Wammy was a good caretaker; he'd taken steps to repair L's poor manners, he'd worked unfailingly with him so that he could present himself in society and form emotional ties should the time ever come when he would want them.

Manners and etiquette of various countries had been an integral part of L's childhood, though he had memorized the niceties just long enough to coerce Wammy into giving him some cake before going back to his old, blunt self. Wammy had done his level best to instill in L a respect for all persons, no matter how irritating, and some of it had even stuck with him.

Generally, this sort of learning was facilitated by scaring the living daylights out of L. Things like taking away all sugar (even Yagami had figured that one out, and he'd known L for all of three days or so), or taking away his interesting cases so he'd be forced to work on domestic disputes turned violent or small-time convenience store robberies had been quite effective.

Lecturing him until he slouched nearly down to the floor worked quite well too.

Overall, L thought as his gaze flitted from the air conditioning unit near the window to the base of his oak bedframe, he was both impressed and demeaned that Wammy could still reduce him to a repentant puddle of L-ness with nothing more than a lecture and a _you're-eating-vegetables-for-a-week-L-Lawliet_. L chalked up his severe discomfort to the fact that it had been years since he'd this thoroughly displeased Wammy, and although he did love to rile him up at times, he generally did not like to disappoint him.

And though L tried to protest that it was Raito, after all, who had send off that horrible email, and had changed his insignia, Wammy was having none of it. He crisply informed L that while yes, Raito was out of line and he'd be given a talking-to by Roger, it was L who had driven up up the wall onto the _ceiling_, and that Wammy was surprised that, given Raito's personality and L's own predilection and aptitude at irritating others, Raito's revenge had not been more severe.

Wammy further informed him that _he _would be drafting the apology letter to the "Leaders of the World," and that in it he would admit to hacker problems. L tried a token protest, but it was so weak that one good glare from Wammy shot it spiraling, screaming down towards the earth in flames.

L watched it burn dispassionately.

Finally, Wammy paused and took a deep breath. "Lastly," he finished, sounding a great deal calmer now that he'd gotten all his concerns off his chest, "you will be apologizing to Yagami for your behavior."

"Which part?" L wanted to know.

Wammy looked at him sharply. "Why don't you tell me?" he asked.

L considered for a moment that perhaps the whole reason Wammy was doing this was similar to the reason he fed him chalk vitamins: because he harbored a secret grudge towards L's insomnia and sugar addiction and utter disregard for others' sleep schedules, and he was taking his own quiet revenge through small, though effective, means. Then he realized that it really didn't matter if that were the case, since Wammy was still waiting on an answer and was not likely to wait patiently much longer. "I suppose I should not have antagonized him when we first met," he admitted. "And I suppose that my behavior before, during, and after the tennis match was unacceptable."

"And you'll be buying him a new shirt," Wammy inserted.

L scowled at the plush carpeting. "I do not know what he likes, Wammy. Even if I bought a shirt identical to the on I ruined, he would likely tell me that the brand was all wrong or that the shade of pink was not nearly effeminate enough for his tastes."

Wammy chose to be the bigger person and look over that little insult. "Then you'll just have to take him with you when you go," he reasoned.

L choked on air, which Wammy was relatively certain was not actually possible. L did an awfully convincing impression, however, and by the time he was done his face was rather pink from the coughing and hacking. "Take him . . . _with me_?" L demanded. "Take him with me where? Could I not just buy him a gift certificate for Amazon or something?"

"No," Wammy informed him. "Buying clothes online is detestable to some people, since they cannot try on the clothes they are purchasing. Besides, it will be a good lesson for you to go with him and see how much effort some people choose to put into their wardrobe."

"What about my anonymity?" L asked. "I do not like my face to be seen."

"No one will know that it is your face," Wammy assured him.

"And when do you propose we take this little excursion?" L asked. "Yagami-kun has an obligation to teach his students on weekdays, tutor them on Saturdays, and on Sundays all the staff trade off cleaning and culinary duties, as that is the day off for maids and cooks. Besides," he added before Wammy could reply, "there are no shopping centers nearby that will have the types of shops he will likely prefer. We'd have to go all the way to one of the major cities, all of which are at least an hour away."

Wammy didn't even pause when he replied, which made L think that he was planning it all along. Wammy was wily that way. "You'll go with the other students," he said. "They're all going next week on the trip to London."

"There's a trip to London?" L asked curiously.

"Yes," Wammy confirmed. "It's supposed to motivate the students to behave well. If they do, then every other month they get to go somewhere. It was mostly invented as a precaution for Matt and Mello. This month, Roger has chosen to take the students to London."

L . . . had no response for that. After sorting through his options, he settled on an ambiguous and unsatisfying, "Oh. Well, then."

"Well, then, indeed," Wammy agreed, smiling. He paused and his expression changed. "L, I know that you didn't mean for any of this to happen. But you cannot treat other people as though they were placed here solely for your own amusement and expect all of them not to bite back."

"I see that now," L mumbled to his desk chair.

"Now, get started on your apology letter to the most powerful people in the world, steel yourself for an apology towards Raito, and for God's sake stop pestering the poor boy. He's likely had a difficult time of things if he left his home behind without a backwards glance and moved to an entirely different_ continent_."

"All right," L agreed. "No pestering."

"And investigating," Wammy said. "Stop that too. If you want to know what's happened, then ask him. It will serve you right if he doesn't trust you enough to tell you."

"Fine."

Wammy looked pleased enough with L's mediocre reply. "I'll leave you to your work then," he said, "if you'll just hand me the box of sweets you keep under your bed. They'll be returned to you in a week's time."

L shambled over the the bed and worked the bin out. "You know," he mused, "I'm twenty-four years old. That's more than old enough to make my own decisions."

"So long as I'm still around, I'll do my best to make certain you stay out of trouble," Wammy warned him. "And if that means grounding you, then so be it." He picked up the box of sweets and began to exit.

"I won't be able to think correctly without those!" L called after him.

"It won't do much damage, seeing as you've yet to take on another case," Wammy returned.

"Damn it," L muttered, cursing his obsessive tendencies that wouldn't let him focus on anything but the task at hand. Some people thought that multi-tasking was impressive. Ha. Let's see them focus so determinedly on the task at hand that even language and surroundings fade into the background until they seem to be floating in a sphere where only percentages and evidence exist.

L sighed and shut the door. Let the punishment begin.

* * *

><p>"Well, I heard that L hit him so hard, he won't wake up till next <em>Thursday<em>," Mello announced.

"I heard that Light won the fight," piped up a little voice from the other side of the classroom.

"Shut up, Linda!" Mello shouted back. "He did not!"

"How can we know what happened at all, since no one saw what happened except Mr. Wammy?" Matt interrupted.

"Don't bring logic into this!" Mello snapped.

Somewhere in a dark corner of Wammy's—possibly Near's bedroom—Logic curled up and wept. She never got to have any say in these matters.

Matt shrugged and went back to messing around with Wammy's security system. Mostly just because he could.

"We could ask him," someone suggested.

"Yes, we could do that," Mello granted, voice sounding far too patient to be believable. "Or . . . we could hack into the video feed and find the footage!"

"I don't think Light would approve of that." Near's soft voice drifted over from the other side of the room, near the professor's desk.

"Shut up, Near," Mello snapped. "You don't know what you're talking about; he's the professor of technology, this is what he's been _training _us for. He'll be impressed that we can do this." He glanced at Matt. "We can do this, right?"

Matt shook his head absently and pressed a few more keys. "Nope, for a couple of reasons. First, Light has a private bedroom. None of us have cameras in our room. It's illegal for one thing and for another, I think that Roger knows we'd just tear them down and use them to make some kind of super weapon. And even if there _w__as _a camera, all the security feeds here have been going nuts for the past week. Can't see anything anyhow."

"Well . . . shit," Mello said. "I guess we'll just have to ask Light."

"Ask me what?" Raito inquired as he walked into the classroom. In his arms were stacks of coding manuals, which he set down on the front table.

Mello was busy staring at the nice looking bruise on his chin that he missed the question by several seconds. He recovered quickly, however, and said, "Ask you what happened between you and L."

Raito frowned. "Word travels fast," he commented. "We had a disagreement and both lost our tempers. We're grown men, though, and it was inappropriate. It won't be happening again."

"Thanks for the moral, Disney Channel," Mello interjected. "What were you fighting about?"

Raito looked at him with a half-amused, half-disgruntled expression. "None of your business, really," he told him. "You can ask L if you really want to know. He might tell you."

Mello half-stood.

"Not now!" Raito told him. "You have _class _right now."

Mello sank back into his seat with an irritated scowl.

Raito picked up one of the code books and began their lesson.

* * *

><p>L waited until he knew for sure the lesson would be over and then entered the classroom just as the denizens of Wammy's were running out. Once they noticed him approaching Raito, however, at least half of them froze and turned to stare at what they no doubt thought was going to be some entertainment.<p>

L glared at them. "Shoo," he said, which deterred another third of the class. Mello, Matt, and a few of their friends still hung around, though, so L marched over to them and herded them out of the classroom. "Nothing to see here," he told them. "And you've classes in a few minutes."

Mello frowned and began to protest. Then L shut the door in his face and turned around.

Raito was watching him with a amused, if wary expression. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, starting to pack up the lessons books and printouts.

"I came to . . ." The word was stuck in his throat, it felt as though his mouth was coated in dry desert sands. " . . . apologize," he forced out.

Raito did not look as suitably impressed as he should have. "Oh?" he queried, raising an eyebrow and leaving the books where they were for the moment.

Smug bastard—L would get his revenge. Maybe not soon, but someday, when he least expected it. When _Wammy _least expected it. "Yes," he confirmed. "I apologize for conducting myself poorly when we first met, and for my behavior during and after our tennis match."

"Thank you," Raito said primly. "And what about my shirt?"

L couldn't hold back a grimace this time. "I propose that on the next trip to London, I will buy you a replacement of your choosing."

Raito wrinkled his nose. "That won't be necessary," he told him. "I'd be perfectly happy just to take your money, and leave you here."

"As would I," L agreed. "Mr. Wammy thinks that it would be a better punishment for me to socialize."

"It would be a punishment for me too," Raito protested.

"And one you very well deserve," L said levelly. "You behaved abominably yourself, you know."

Raito glared at him. "Ever heard of an eye for an eye?" he asked. "We're even now."

"I ruined your _shirt_," L snapped. "And hurt your _pride_. You ruined an international reputation that very well may hinder justice in more than a dozen countries."

"You behaved with causeless discourtesy and unwarranted hostility," Raito rejoined. "You decided before we even met that you didn't like me and that you'd let me know it. Why?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," L told him.

"You are infuriating," Raito said sweetly. "And if you try to pull anything else, I will make certain that your reputation will go up in flames."

"And you are evil," L responded. "And if you do anything of the sort, you'll be out of a job." He paused, and ultimately decided to forge ahead. This wasn't really antagonizing, was it? "Speaking of which, Light, do your parents know that you work here?"

Raito paled. Not much, but enough to be noticeable. "Of course," he confirmed.

"Of course," L parroted. "They must have given you their permission—after all, it's awfully difficult to disappear in a world like this. It would take months of planning."

Raito's expression was cool and gave nothing away. "I suppose it would," he said. "Now, I accept your apology, and I'll be speaking to Roger about going shopping next week."

"Going to try to get out of it?" L asked.

If L didn't know any better, he would say that Raito's expression was trying to communicate a 'no, duh!' sort of message.

"Yeah."

He opened the door and found a group of students standing near it, with wide eyes. He sighed, expression turning from smug to long-suffering in less than half a second. "Hello, ankle-biters," he greeted. "This school doesn't give detentions, so I suppose I'll just have to torment you with extra work over the next few weeks."

Then he slipped away in the direction of Roger's office. When the students groaned and turned to face him, L just shrugged.

* * *

><p>Turned out that Roger was every bit as determined and fed up with their squabbling as Wammy, because he adamantly refused to let Raito off the hook as far as the London trip went. He also mandated that L and Raito sit next to each other in one of the vans they would be driving to the city. What he meant but didn't say was, Raito would be responsible for driving one of the vans, and L would be responsible for sitting in the passenger seat next to him, screwing around with the air conditioner and radio and generally annoying the hell out of him.<p>

"Will you _stop that_," Raito hissed, managing to make the question sound more like an order. He caught L's wrist which heedless of Raito's warning was headed towards the radio to change the station _again_. L tried to tug it away, but Raito held fast. "No," he said. "You don't touch the radio, and you certainly don't touch the air conditioner. It is freezing outside, and I like this station. Agreed?" When L didn't answer he squeezed his wrist harder. "I'm not letting go until I get a 'yes' from you, L."

L gave up trying to pull his hand out of Raito's surprisingly strong grip. What he did next he blamed on his own rebellious nature and the fact that he hadn't had sugar in nearly five days. Instead of pulling away, which obviously wasn't working, L instead stroked one of his fingers down Raito's arm and gently caressed the inside of his wrist.

With a disgusted look and a surprised noise, Raito jerked his own hand away and flexed the fingers as though making certain that L hadn't contaminated them and they still worked properly.

L smiled beatifically at him. Oh, yes. He would have his revenge. Later. But for now . . . maybe he could just have some fun.

And when he changed the radio station five minutes later, Raito didn't say a word.

Interesting.

Anyway, as luck would have it (or perhaps as another punishment thought up by Roger), both Matt and Mello, as well as Near and a few other students had been assigned to their van and L could currently hear Near and Mello bickering.

Well, Mello was bickering. He even had a tone that reminded L of the word 'bicker.' It was fast-paced and impatient, with disregard for the points Near made and no time to draw breath. Near, on the other hand, sounded much the same as he always did: calm, unemotional, intelligent, and kind of like a robot. A really cute, helpless looking robot that lured your in with its big eyes and fragile frame and then turned on you and snapped your head right off.

Oh, God, sugar-deprivation must be getting to him if his thoughts were wandering this far from home.

Matt sat between the two, and he was calmer than either of them as he played around on his DS. The only things that made him even seem _alive _were his thumbs, moving fast over the buttons, and his eyes, flitting from characters on the screen and occasionally up to the argument and its participators as they talked around him like he wasn't even there.

L had to wonder how often Matt was a buffer between the two. From his nonchalant attitude and glassy eyes, probably nearly every day.

Matt caught him staring and grinned at him. Startled, L returned the smile with a small one of his own. He'd thought Matt was unhappy with him, but perhaps he was one of those rare creatures that could separate what a person did from who that person was, and only hated he line of questioning L imposed on him, not L himself.

Suddenly, Mello rounded on him. "What do you think, Matt?" he demanded.

Matt's eyes darted away from L's and looked at him. "What do I think about what?" he asked.

"I think that in a fight between Superman and Spiderman, Superman would win because he has greater maneuverability and can attack from whichever angle he chooses."

"I believe that it would be Spiderman, as he has the ability to use long-range weapons, and he does not have one great weakness as Superman does—i.e. Kryptonite," Near returned.

"But Spiderman's not invulnerable, like Superman," Mello pressed. "Yes, he's got the Kryptonite, but other than that, nothing can hurt him. And as for long-range weapons: if Superman really wanted to, he could just pull out an AK-47 and blast him right out of existence."

"Any creature is only as powerful as his greatest weakness," Near lectured. "And as Superman's is enough to render him helpless, he is the inferior being."

"What do you think?" Mello asked, rounding on Matt. "Who would win?"

Matt thought about it for a moment. "Batman," he finally said. When Mello started to protest, he continued. "Because even if one or both of them managed to beat him to a pulp, he's still better looking, and much wealthier than either of them. Money and looks win over raw power every time."

Mello rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat. "You're no fun at all," he muttered.

Matt grinned as he returned to his game. "Nonsense," he said. "I'm heaploads of fun. Why else would you keep me around, if not for my good nature, good looks, and heaploads of fun?"

"Because you can help him with his computer assignments?" Near suggested, a little smile tugging at his lips as he pulled at his hair.

"Sorry, Near," Mello said, "we don't allow hair-twirling pansies to have a say in our discussion."

Near did not look phased. "I hardly think-" he began.

"Yer _mom _hardly thinks," Mello interrupted. "Now be quiet, I'm about to decimate Matt's ego with my impressive wit."

L turned back around in his seat then, smiling a little. "What a childish argument," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Raito must have thought that he was addressing him, however, because he glanced at L. "They _are _children, L," he reminded him. "It's too bad they don't get to have more days like this."

L looked at him then. "You care about them?" he asked.

Raito shrugged. "In a distant sort of way," he admitted. "As much as I ever care about anyone."

"That sounds very sad."

"Don't make me hurt you."

L was about to make some equally clever comment when Mello's voice echoed from the backseat. "Look, we're here!" he shouted. L looked up and saw the city of London sprawled before them, tall buildings, old architecture, polluted air and all.

"Inside voice," Raito cautioned as he pulled into a parking structure.

L hid his grin behind his knees. He always forgot how he missed the city until he was finally back, and then a sort of homesick feeling—the one he sometimes got towards Wammy's—made his chest seem sort of tight. Raito was looking at the city with the same sort of longing, and L noticed that the expression made his very pretty eyes stand out further and his lips look redder against pale skin.

The moment the van stopped, the doors burst open, and their six or seven charges poured out, scattering in every direction, some running, some screaming, and some heading for any dangerous part of the structure they could find, like the edge of a three story drop onto concrete or the stairs.

L and Raito looked at each other for one, panic-stricken moment.

"Truce?" L asked. His pride was already beaten to a twitching mass from the revenge Raito had exacted, and from the apology he'd been forced to give. He had nothing left to lose. Plus, the beginning of a plan for a revenge of his own was starting to form . . .

"I still despise you," Raito informed him.

"I got that," L assured him.

Raito took a deep breath, watched as students began to drift further away and then nodded. "Okay, let's go."

* * *

><p>AN: Fun fun fun times in London! I'm writing the next chapter as we speak, so it should be good to go within the week; I'm thinking that since the new chapters are beginning from now on, I'd like to give myself about a week to write each one, so I'd say you can expect that, okay? Is that cool with everyone? I thought so XD

Anyways, hope you loved reading it as much as I did writing it!


	9. Complication

**Part 09 - Complication**

**Submitted 06.17.11**

* * *

><p>Once Light and L finally figured out that it was Mello leading the pack of ruffians wild through the city—which, in retrospect, really shouldn't have taken the two genii the full 20 minutes that it did to figure out—L came up with a brilliant plan.<p>

"Mello," he called out, and the Blonde Wonder paused in his machinations and whirled around.

"Yes, Ryuuzaki?" he asked sweetly.

"Do you think you could come here and talk to me for a minute?" L asked.

Mello's face broke out into a wide grin, and L felt the heavy weight of childish admiration and hero-worship settle onto his shoulders like a wet blanket. He sighed like a man condemned as Mello began to skip back to him, to which Light elbowed him a little in the ribs.

When L looked at Light, a retort already weaseling its way onto his tongue, Light smiled, almost sadly. "I know it isn't your strong suit, but be nice to him, okay?" he said, which surprised L enough that he shut his mouth with a snap and just stared at Light, who shrugged.

"The kid worships you," Light added. "He won't always; make him happy while its still in your power to do so."

"Why do I feel you have personal experience with something like this?" L muttered.

Light, mercifully, was spared from replying by the arrival of Mello—which was remarkably similar to the arrival of a hurricane.

_Hurricane Mello, _L thought, and then shuddered. Just the name had horrible implications that even his advanced mind would rather not think of just now.

"What's up?" Mello asked. His followers had blindly allowed him to lead them back to L; thus, L and Light finally had their group of 9 students comfortably within eyesight. Near hung back, and L wondered if it was because it was because he was terrified of Mello or because he was less than enthusiastic about the trip. L suspected both.

"Light and I were just discussing what we should do on this little foray into the real world," L told him. "Light here suggested _shopping_-"

"I did _not_-" Light interjected amongst the jeers of the other students.

"-but I thought we could do some sight-seeing," L suggested.

Mello's eyes got very big. L's chest suddenly constricted in something remarkably similar to fear.

"The Tower of London," Mello decided, "is where we'll be headed." And he turned and began walking, leaving the rest of them to follow or, presumably, to perish.

As they walked, however, Light detected some murmurings of hunger or other complaints so, not without trepidation, he called to the group to stop. "Hang on, kids," he said.

"We are not children," Mello snapped, back by murmurs of support from kids too frightened or too in awe to disagree. "And why do we have to hold on—did you see a shop you needed to head into?"

"No, I got the impression that our little group might prefer to get lunch instead of touring the foremost museum on torture devices, actually," Light said. "So which will it be?"

"Torture devices!" Mello exclaimed, at the same time the chorus of schoolchildren sang out, "Lunch!"

Light sighed and rolled his eyes, turning to L with a half-amused, half-exasperated expression on his face. L privately decided that this was very cute, and then immediately began mentally banging his head on a wall. Instead of making this contingency a reality, L turned to look at the kids as if to ask, _So what the hell are we supposed to do now? _

Light shrugged and said, "I'm sure they'll work it out eventually—they're smart kids."

L translated that to mean, _Mello will cow them all into submission eventually—they're smart kids_, and then paused to view the debate (read: shouting match) for a moment. His lips quirked up into a small smile and he said, "You know, Mello is just going to intimidate everyone into going to the Tower, right?"

"Yep," Light agreed, before strolling to a nearby bench and making himself comfortable.

Rolling his eyes at Light's apparent distaste for actual leadership, L turned back to the group and watched as Mello did an excellent impression on an irate ape and as the rest of the kids, with the exception of Matt (playing a video game) and Near (irritatingly unflappable as usual) did excellent impressions of being cowed animals in response.

Sure enough, by the time Light deigned to return to the group, Mello was about to win the argument when suddenly, "Actually, I think we just passed a chocolatier," Matt muttered to himself.

"Shush!" Light warned, but it was too late. Mello and L's eyes both got as wide as saucers and they both turned around in near-perfect harmony, then they ran back half a block and disappeared into a shop on the street. "And we're going to be waiting here a while," Light sighed. He glanced at Matt. "What was that for?" he demanded, a bit crossly.

Matt just laughed, looking up only briefly from a video game. "Mello's much more pliable once he's gorged himself on cocoa," he told Light. "Ryuuzaki too. Don't worry, Light. I just did you a favor."

After a good 20 minutes (and how in God's name does someone spend 20 minutes picking out chocolate? Light wonders), Mello and L returned—and yep, just as Matt predicted, they both had matching docile smiles and eyes drooping in utter satisfaction.

"We're good now?" Light asked, and Mello smiled at him.

"Sure, whatever's good," Mello said, casually licking his fingers. L nodded his apparent agreement, and Light's expression settled comfortably somewhere in between 'smug' and 'amused'.

"Let's head to lunch then, since these two seem to have beat us to it," he told the rest of the kids, and there was a general chorus of cheering. "Thanks, Matt," Light said quietly to the boy in question, who just grinned.

"No prob," Matt said. "It's what I'm here for, sir."

Light cringed. "I thought I'd told you not to call me that," he said. "It sounds . . . creepy, I think."

Matt laughed. "Okay, Light," he agreed, then ran to catch up with the rest of the group, yelling after Mello.

Light smiled, and L caught the melancholy tilt to the expression. "You've never had that, have you?" L asked, and Light looked at him sharply, pleasant expression gone.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, and L caught the subtext of _Who are you to talk, you socially deprived primitive primate?_

L had to give him points for silent alliteration.

"Them," L said, nodding in the direction of the fast disappearing students. He and Light doubled their pace to catch up and herd the kids to an acceptable little restaurant. "Friends like that."

Light looked at him strangely. "Are you telling me you have?" he asked, and L shrugged.

"No, of course not," L admitted. He had decided that bugging Light could at least wait until the drive home; they had called a truce, after all, and it would be in his best interest to keep it for now.

"They're more than just friends," Light scoffed, and when L looked puzzled, Light sighed. "Matt worships him, L," he said. "Mello is everything to him; I don't know why, or what Mello did to make it that way, but Matt loves him."

L blinked. He was surprised by Light's statement, yes, but something else much more important was going on inside his mind; the pieces to the puzzle he'd been working on for the past few weeks finally slid into place with a nearly audible click. So _that _was why Matt was being so evasive—because Mello—and he—and oh, God, how could he be so stupid? Of _course_ Matt was doing this for Mello. Any idiot would have seen it—L chalked it up to the fact that he'd been so busy with damage control and trying to figure out what the hell Light was up to to give the Matt-puzzle his very best effort. At least, that's what assuaged his broken ego well enough for him to let it go.

"Be that as it may," L said, once he was done filing the information away, "you never did answer my question."

"What question?" Light asked with a sigh, and L was at once offended that Light thought his questions were boring, and cheered that he was annoying him.

"Friends—you've never really had them, have you?"

Light opened his mouth, and for a minute, L thought he was actually going to get honesty out of the tight-lipped, secretive absconder. Then he shut it with a snap and shrugged back. "My private life is none of your business, _particularly_ after your behavior over the past few weeks. Which reminds me," he added, before L could say something snarky back, "you still owe me a new shirt."

"Ah, yes, the Pink Monstrosity," L said speculatively.

Light flushed just the tiniest bit, and L found himself simultaneously fascinated with and enamored of the coloring that dusted his cheeks. He resolved to make Light blush with more frequency in the future.

"It wasn't that pink," Light said scathingly. "It was . . . it was just a carnation color. Or a rose quartz color . . ." He trailed off, seeing that L was suppressing laughter. "Shut up," he muttered, pulling out his wallet to pay for the children's lunches.

"No, no," L assured him. "Carnation pink and rose quartz are indeedthe manliest of all the pinks. I see now where you were coming from."

Light opened and closed his mouth again, and L amused himself by thinking of the old adage about catching flies in the context of Light's wide open trap for a moment. "Touche," Light finally muttered, then added, "You realize of course that I'm going to have to ruin you for this damage you've dealt to my pride?"

"I'll be on the look out," L promised him, and he could have sworn he saw the corners of Light's lips twitch up, just the tiniest bit, before he turned back to the kids and began shouting out directives.

After lunch, they did indeed have time still to visit the Tower of London, an excursion that included much gaping and explanations, as well as an attempted theft (Mello), harassment of the guards there (still Mello), making their tour guide cry (also, unsurprisingly, Mello) and the near-collapse of Western society (Matt and Near, actuallly).

The problem, of course, lay in the fact that L and Light were only two people, and the children they were watching were Wammy-trained and altogether too intelligent for their own good, Light mused as he dragged Mello away from one of the Catherine wheels. In retrospect, he decided that it was an altogether inane idea to allow the kids to have free reign over a museum that detailed gruesome medieval torture devices, and that he ought to take full responsibility for the grievous oversight. Or maybe he could just push it off onto L. That could work too.

Once L and Light had decided that their little brood had done enough damage at the museum, they ushered them towards the London Eye. They figured the kids probably couldn't do _much _damage to the gargantuan structure, and it would be easier to keep an eye on them inside one of the pods.

Halfway through their ride, L quietly sidled up next to Matt as the rest of the group 'ooh'ed and 'ahh'ed at the city from above.

"Matt, I still need to talk to you," L murmured, and Matt jumped, a bit guiltily, and looked up.

"Aw, c'mon, L," Matt whined, and L frowned.

"I hardly see what is so dramatic and horrible about having a conversation with me," he pointed out, and Matt's expression twisted into something like a grimace.

"It's _what_ you want to talk about," Matt told him. "I don't want to be your successor, L, can't we just leave it at that?"

L glanced around, somewhat paranoid that Matt was calling him by his true name, but he relaxed when he realized that their students were the only ones inside this particular capsule. People probably had some absurd notion that Mello was going to send the entire wheel crashing to the ground. Or something else terrifyingly plausible.

Now that L thought about it, it was indeed eerily possible, and his head jerked around just to make sure Mello was still engaged in arguing with Light and Near about whether or not "Frodo really was just a big pansy" and if "Legolas was a creepy queer." The boy could make an argument out of anything. An admirable trait, if a slightly dangerous one.

"The others are engaged, Matt," L said, turning back to the object of his current mystery. One of them, anyway. "No one's going to hear what you tell me, and there are no cameras to record what we say, unlike at Wammy's."

Matt folded his arms across his chest and looked determinedly out at the city. "I don't have anything to tell you," he said quietly. "I just don't want the world on my shoulders—why is that such a big deal?"

"Because you could be so _good _at it, Matt," L said sincerely. "You're brilliant, a great actor, determined, devious-"

"-Thanks," Matt interjected.

"Yeah," L said off-handedly. "The point is, you have all the qualities to be L."

"Yeah, except for the most crucial one," Matt pointed out. "Desire. I don't want it, L, and nothing you say can change my mind."

There was a pause, and then L lowered his voice considerably as he murmured, "This is about Mello, isn't it?"

Matt started and looked up at L, before lowering his gaze back outside the window. "Of course not. Why would you say that?" he asked.

"Because Mello is your best friend, but he is also dying to be the next L," L observed.

Matt's head jerked around to stare at him. "He's dying to have your approval, L. Nothing else," he snapped. "God knows why, but he absolutely worships you."

"I think it has something to do with me being the world's three greatest detectives."

Matt snorted. "Please," he said. "You're great at solving crimes, L, but when it comes to mysteries in your own backyard, you seem a little . . . slow, actually."

"It has nothing to do with the fact that it is, as you say, 'in my own backyard,'" L protested. "It has everything to do with the fact that this mystery is _not_ a crime, but rather a knot that has human emotion right in the center of it."

Matt smiled, a little bitterly. "Yeah, and we all know that human emotion isn't exactly your strongest suit."

For a moment, L was actually offended. "You really don't think much of me, do you?" he finally asked, voice low, to which Matt glanced up, looking startled.

"It's not that, L," he insisted quietly, looking around to make sure the other students were still occupied. "I'm just . . . I'm just defensive, you know? You're playing with my secrets like they're nothing, but they mean the world to me. Do you know what would happen if Mello ever found out?"

"A messy disembowelment, followed by a bonfire, followed by dancing on your ashes?" L hazarded a guess.

Matt actually laughed a little at that. "Yeah, if I'm lucky," he muttered. "And that wouldn't even be the worst part."

L raised an eyebrow. "How can all that not be the worst part?" he asked.

Matt sighed and returned his gaze to the window. "If Mello ever found out I'm lying about all this stuff, he'd be pissed off, yeah, but more importantly, he'd be hurt. Crushed."

"So you're not ever planning on telling him the truth," L summarized. "Even though he's your friend."  
>"No, I'm not," Matt countered, "<em>because<em> he's my friend. And don't pretend you know better about friendships than me, L, because the only sort of friendship you've formed is a highly dysfunctional, competitive one with Light, and God only knows how that's gonna turn out."

Now it was L's turn to be surprised. "You think Light and I are friends?" he asked.

Matt frowned. "I guess I just assumed," he said. "That's the vibe I get from you guys. It's unusual, yeah, but you seem like you're either friends or enemies; the point is, neither one of you feels neutral."

"So?" L asked.

"So, how often does that happen, L?" Matt asked. "How often do you feel?"

L chose not to answer that, preferring instead to turn the idea over in his head. He and Light, friends? Surely not, since it was obvious that Light still hated his guts. But—and here L knew he was sailing into a storm, and he didn't even know how to sail—L thought that perhaps he would _like _to be friends. Or, at the very least, he'd like to pin Light to the bed and . . .

Perhaps it was best he discontinue that thought while he was around children. So instead, he turned to anther absorbing topic: namely, being right. "So I'm right, then," he contemplated. "About your test scores, your intelligence, Mello—everything."

For a moment, Matt looked very angry, surprising L, until he finally just shrugged. "Yeah, okay?" he said. "You're right, L. I can't do this. Mello is my best friend, and he wants it more than I ever have or ever will. So he can have it. I've never really wanted it; I'm too chill. You should give it to Mello, or even to Near, but never to me."

"And you don't mind lying about your intellect to make him feel better?" L asked dryly.

"I'm not lying, per se," Matt said with a shrug. "I'm just not living up to my potential. And I don't see anything wrong with that."

As they touched the ground and the door slid open, L sighed. "What's wrong, Matt, is that I'd very much like to make _you_ my next successor." Too late, L realized that the pod had gotten very, very quiet just moments before he uttered this sentence.

And before Matt could say anything, a voice cut across their conversation like a blade. "What the _hell_?" it demanded.

Dreading the scene behind him, L slowly turned to see Mello.

Mello, who was white-faced and horrified, whose hands trembled and voice shook to match.

Matt whirled around at the same time L did, and his color, too, drained from his face and he started forward. "Mels," he started, but Mello cut him off with a swift punch to the gut.

"Don't _talk _to me!" Mello shouted, voice harsh and grating and trembling. "How _dare _you, holding back all these years, making a complete fool out of me-"

"Mello!" This was Light, who stalked over to their side of the compartment, shocked and clueless. "What is going on?" he demanded.

There was a silence while Matt coughed and tried to straighten from the crouched position he'd taken when struck and Mello and L just stared back at him. Finally, L spoke. "I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said, reaching out for Mello, who shoved his hand away.

"Misunderstanding my ass!" Mello snapped, and Light cringed.

"_Language_, Mello," he chided.

"You shut up too!"

Light's eyes widened as he began to understand the seriousness of the situation.

Everything was silent while Mello approached Matt again, who straightened as best he could and looked his friend straight in the eye.

"You lied?" Mello asked him, and though his voice was angry, there was still a touch of pleading to it that made L wince. "You've been lying this whole time? About tests and assignments, and not getting English and-and everything?"

Slowly, seeing he wasn't getting out of this one, Matt nodded. "I just . . . I didn't want anyone to _see_ me, Mel," he said, and indeed his face flushed a deep red as he looked around and found everyone's eyes on him and the drama he'd created.

"Don't call me that," Mello snapped, but his voice lacked the fire L would have guessed it would've had in this situation. "You're a liar, and—and, oh my God, L said—"

It seemed like he could not finish, and instead looked at L with mute and horrified inquisition.

Slowly, L nodded. He knew that it was Mello's worst nightmare, but the boy had heard, and there was no sense in making a liar out of himself. That seemed to be all the confirmation Mello needed, because slowly turned his head back to Matt and hissed, "I don't want to have anything to do with you after this, got it? Get your stuff out of my room, move up to the advanced classes, start your training, whatever. So you get to be L's successor, I don't care." But it was obvious to L that Mello did care, very much.

"Mello, come on," Matt urged. "You heard me, I don't want-"

"That's not the point!" Mello snapped. Then his voice dropped low again. "Just . . . just leave me alone, Matt."

He turned to go, but Matt caught his arm and whispered, "Mihael, please," barely loud enough that L heard. To this, Mello's eyes grew very wide and he jerked his arm away from Matt like he'd been bitten.

"_Do not call me that_," Mello hissed. "We are not friends, Matt, and don't think we can be." And he turned, and walked away.

* * *

><p>The drive home was very, very quiet. Not even the tinny beeps and jingles of Matt's handheld, usually a persistent, even comforting background noise, was absent.<p>

Light drove again, and although L would have liked to have continued fiddling with the radio and air conditioning and just generally driving Light up the wall and onto the ceiling, the atmosphere of melancholy was much to present even for him to ignore.

Matt sat in the very back of the large van, with Mello just behind the driver's seat. And although some of the children tried to engage in whispered conversations, for the most part, the drive back was a very somber affair.

Mello bolted from the van right when they arrived inside Wammy's gates and although L didn't follow to see what happened, he later heard that Mello locked Matt out of their shared room that night and that he refused to come down for breakfast or classes the next day.

L privately thought that it was a lot of drama over just a little conversation he and Matt had had—L hadn't even officially declared his successor, after all—but he supposed it was just Mello's nature and flair for the dramatic shining through. Yet another reason why Mello wouldn't be a great choice for his heir, despite his obvious intelligence. He was too impetuous, too ruled by the razor sharp emotions that tore through him without warning.

Finally, on the second day of Mello's self-imposed isolation, L heard a knock on his bedroom door; when he opened it, he found a very embarrassed-looking Raito Yagami.

Well, an embarrassed Light was a welcome one, so L stepped aside to allow him entry.

Light walked inside carefully, as though he was afraid something of L's would bite, or possibly sting or spontaneously combust, and after pacing into the room a bit, he turned to face L.

"Look, I'll just get right to the point," he began.

L nodded, only momentarily distracted as Light bit his lower lip. "Please do," he said in what he hoped was a pleasant tone. By Light's expression, however, he assumed that he failed miserably.

"You have to talk to him, L," Light said.

"Mello?" L guessed.

"Yes, of course; who else?"

"Well, I suppose I could talk to Matt as well," L suggested, but Light merely shrugged at his suggestion.

"You can try," Light said. "It seems like he's in shock, though. He's going to meals and his classes, but he's not saying or eating much. I've tried talking to him, but it seems like he's just avoiding the whole thing, hoping it was just some horrible dream."

"Hmm," L murmured. "I suppose I can try talking to Mello," he conceded. "I don't know if it will do much good, however . . ."

"He wants to hear from you, I'm sure," Light insisted, looking relieved L hadn't rejected him immediately.

"No offense, Light, but why do you care?" L asked curiously. "You're only their teacher, and none of the other staff have come to me, asking me to make amends with Matt or Mello. I frankly think they're all just relieved that Mello isn't being a terror, as usual."

"I can't blame them for that," Light muttered.

"Yes, but why aren't you doing the same?" L asked.

Light looked at him and sighed. "Look, I'm not really sure," he admitted. "I just . . . I actually care about these kids. I see myself in a lot of them."

"Were you also an isolated, socially-challenged orphan when you were younger?" L drawled, a bit shocked by Light's comparison.

"I didn't mean that, you ass," Light bit out. "I just meant . . . they're lonely, I guess. A lot of them are, anyway."

L, who had opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, suddenly found himself snapping it shut. Light was taking a real risk here, he realized. Telling him something that personal was a risk, and L knew it was one Light would never take without good reason. As far as he could decipher Light either a) suddenly and inexplicably wanted to be his friend and thought they could bond by sharing secrets (unlikely) or b) really, really wanted him to talk to Mello (better).

So, it was with grim determination and a heavy sense of duty that L approached Mello's door and knocked.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh man, seems like some of the drama from Silence has carried over here. Sorry for the less-than-light-hearted chapter, you guys, but I mean, come on, who didn't see this coming? I promise that next chapter will have more amusement for you.

Also, I apologize to anyone who was offended by my usage of the word 'queer.' It is not something I'd use myself, but frankly, Mello isn't exactly the most sensitive guy in the world. So if you're mad, please blame him and not me. :)

Oh, and next chapter, we get to see some of the drama from Mello and Matt's POV, so that should be . . . well, maybe fun isn't the right word, but interesting at least! Right? Right, you guys? Oh, and sorry for the itty-bitty cliffhanger. I plan on updating soon, so you shouldn't have to wait too long. Next chapter, we'll have a couple of heart-to-hearts, interesting POVs, and what's this? L and Light being civil? Even . . . bonding? We'll see!

Anyways, if you enjoyed (or if you didn't, whatever, I don't care), lemme know! I know that asking for reviews is tacky and shameless, but I'm kinda a tacky, shameless kind of person (why writing Mello is so easy for me), so please please review away!


	10. Implosion

**Part 10 - Implosion**

**Published 07.10.11**

* * *

><p>So, it was with grim determination and a heavy sense of duty that L approached Mello's door and knocked.<p>

And knocked again. Still there was no response from the startlingly inanimate door. Frowning now, L knocked harder. He was L, damn it, and when L knocked, things happened.

But the door was a persistent sort of plague, and so, instead off facing down a plane of solid oak, L elected to deal with the door's owner, a volatile, violent, mercurial teenager.

What was _wrong_with him?

So, without further ado, L made industrious use of his left shoulder in order to ply the door ajar-which turned out to be completely unnecessary and left L feeling foolish when the door swung open without so much as a creak of protest.

Stepping cautiously into the room, lest Mello decide to go all chainsaw murderer on him, L examined his surroundings. Being a detective, he noticed several things at once.

First, that Mello's "secret" chocolate drawer in his nightstand was akin to a gaping, empty maw.

_Suspicious,_L thought.

Secondly, he saw that Mello's usually less-than tidy room was now a disaster area. L imagined that out would take days and numerous men in hazmat suits to clean it all up. It took L longer than he'd like to admit for him to realize that it was not Mello's belongings, but Matt's. Mello must have thrown them there in a fit of shock-induced rage.

L rolled his eyes. _Drama queen, _he thought.

And thirdly-and, L supposed, must importantly-there was a distinct lack of any chaos-inducing, blue-eyed, chocolate-fingered, blond turbid terror. That is to say, Mello and all his effects had up and absconded.

"Well," L decided aloud, "this is less than ideal."

* * *

><p>Light Yagami, usually a composed super-genius with more confidence than he knew what to do with, was, to put it gently, something of a mess.<p>

To put it not so gently, Light Yagami was a catastrophe.

Light had decided a long time ago that pacing was juvenile, and an unhealthy habit besides, so he did not pace. No, he was merely walking aimlessly from one side of the room to the other—he was . . . he was perambulating, one might say if one were so inclined (and he was).

_What the hell is wrong with me? _he wondered viciously and not for the first time.

The first time_ it_had happened, after his tennis match with L, he'd brushed it off completely. It didn't bear contemplation.

The second time it had happened, he'd decided firmly that it was just hormones or, excuse the expression, some other shit.

But when it happened a third time (during the drive to London), and a fourth, and a fifth (after L came back from his chocolate run and at lunch, respectively), he'd been forced to—ugh—face it.

And Light Yagami was not a fan of facing things head on—because he'd found that, like in the case of mountain goats, that usually just ended in a headache. And pain besides. And anxiety.

So he had Avoidant Personality Disorder. So what?

At any rate, he'd been forced to face . . . his feelings.

Those feelings being, of course . . . a not-hatred for L. He found that he didn't, as he had first assumed, hate L at all.

As a matter of fact (and, Light thought, as a matter of insanity), Light rather liked L. Quite a bit. Which was a problem, seeing as how he'd decided, not too long ago, that he and L were destined to be mortal enemies for the rest of their competitive, petty lives.

Hence the question: what the hell was wrong with him?

_What indeed, _a smug-sounding inner voice asked.

Light hated Inner Voice.

_Shut up,_Light thought sullenly.

_You _like_ him,_Inner Voice said, drawing out the ' like' so that it extended out into the universe like Light's own eternal horror at the truth behind those words.

_How can I possibly like him? _Light demanded of Inner Voice.

And yes, he was well aware, thank you very much, that talking to himself like this was making him just one berry short of a fruitcake (to say nothing of the obnoxious conclusions one might draw about his—apparently—questionable sexuality).

Regardless. Light continued_, I don't like him. He's arrogant and impossible and messy. He's addicted to sweets and has beaten me more times than I care to admit. He is infuriating and childish and-  
><em>  
><em>And you like him, <em>Inner Voice drawled.

There was a pause. Inner Voice could be such a douche sometimes.

_Damn it, yes, to my everlasting shame, that seems to be the case,_Light finally admitted.

Heaving a great sigh that did nothing to take the edge off his discontent (only causing others pain could do that), Light fell back back onto his bed. So he liked L-so what? It wasn't as though he could amble on up to the world's greatest detective and admit that hey, he didn't completely hate him anymore. Cringing, he imagined how that conversation would go.

L: So you like me.

Light: That seems to be the case, yes.

L: silence

Light: I also might have something of a crush on you. Just, y'know. So you know.

L: Ahahahahahahaha . . .!

End scene.

Yeah, Light would rather avoid that sort if humiliation. Or any kind of humiliation, actually, which is why he needed to stay far, far away from L.

Just as he began to imagine all the scenarios that would result from his confession (none of them even remotely pleasant, and with his mind, Light could imagine a lot of scenarios), there was a knock at his door.

Ignoring his suspicions that it might be a raven a-tap-tapping upon his chamber door, grumbling to himself, Light dragged himself to his feet and opened the door . . .

Which was actually just like opening a can of worms (stupid English sayings, what did that even mean?), since there in his doorway stood the object of his . . . affections? disdain? He settled, once again, on not-hatred.

Well, it seemed it was time again to keep up pretenses. It wouldn't do, Light supposed, to let pretenses get all dusty and unkempt. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You can't have a heart-to-heart in 30 seconds, L."

"And I suppose you, in your infinite social maturity, would know all about that," L droned, stepping into the room and looking around curiously.

"You chickened out, didn't you?" Light asked smugly. "I knew you were agoraphobic, L, but I had no idea your paranoia extended to teenagers."

"Mello is gone," L said plainly, to which Light rolled his eyes.

"Okay, then. Where did he go?" Light asked, irritated at having to play L's little game.

"I do not know," L admitted, and those words combined with a muted expression of discomfort spoke volumes. To Light, L saying "I do not know" was tantamount to L saying, "Mello has disappeared and there is no conceivable way of getting him back."

Distantly, Light realized that he was creeping himself out with how good he'd gotten at reading the eccentric detective. He was also secretly pleased, but that was hardly a nuance worth mentioning.

Shifting gears back into the present so fast he was afraid he'd ruined the transmission, he spat out a hasty, "Well—shit," just to get it out of the way.

L raised his eyebrows. "And they let you work with children," he murmured.

"It was my philanthropic tendencies that convinced them in the end," Light muttered distractedly, then he walked to the door, L close on his heels.

"Obviously," L said. Light decided to be the bigger person and ignore that, and not because he'd run out of things to say.

"So what do we know so far?" Light asked as he made a beeline to Mello's room.

"Not much," L admitted, his voice equal parts regret and irritation. "I went to speak with him, no one answered when I knocked, I went inside and found a room devoid of Mello and most of his possessions."

"He's run away then," Light concluded. "When was the last time anyone spoke to or saw him?"

L shrugged. "We'll have to ask around," he said.

Light stopped as they reached Mello's room. "We should split up," he suggested. "I'll stay here and look for anything that could help us locate Mello-"

"Those are called 'clues,' Light," L supplied helpful, and Light leveled him with a baleful stare.

"Is this nothing more than a joke to you?" Light asked. "One of the kids is missing and you're more inclined to patronize me than to find him?"

L mused on that for a moment, then decided, "I believe I have time for both." When Light opened his mouth to argue, L cut him off with a best calming voice—the one he imagined he'd use around children and animals if he didn't find scaring them to be so much fun. "It's going to be fine, Light," he said. "Mello's probably just wandering through the forest behind Wammy's or walking along the road."

"And neither of those things strikes you as dangerous to a young, naïve boy?" Light asked incredulously, still pawing through the piles of clothing and video games Mello had left behind. L followed suit in a much more delicate fashion, lifting each item carefully with two fingers and examining it before setting it to the side.

"No," he finally answered. "Mello is intelligent and determined. Whatever trouble he gets into, he'll have been asking for it."

"That's sort of the point," Light muttered. "Look, L, I can see that you really don't care about these kids, but do you think you could pretend for the sake of finding Mello faster?"

L cocked his head to one side and put down a copy of GTA before he answered. "I had no idea that Light was so fond of make-believe games."

"Damn it, L!" Light snapped, and L found the anger in his voice oddly . . . delightful. "You know exactly what I mean."

L paused again before answering. "Were you perhaps an oldest child, Light?" he finally asked, and Light gave him a scathing look.

"I supposed you were an only child?" Light guessed, slamming drawers as he hunted for anything that could be of any use to them. The drawers, used to this kind of abuse (as Mello was their owner), and in typical drawer fashion, said nothing.

"I never had a family I could remember," L admitted, hoping that that at least would shut Light up, or perhaps strike a substantial blow.

But, "Oh, so I have to add abandonment issues onto your ever-growing list of cognitive disturbances, then, do I?" Light shot back.

"No one asked you to enumerate my problems," L said sullenly, disappointed that he'd lost another round.

Light sighed and paused in his efforts to glare at L. "This bickering is pointless," he decided.

"That's the point," L explained. Geez, for being such a genius, Light could be a little slow on the uptake. And what the hell was he so upset about? Mello couldn't have gone far, and he'd likely be back once he got hungry. "I bicker with people to prove a point all the time, but that's just work. If this had a point, it wouldn't be any fun."

Light stared at him for a moment. "This is how you have fun?" he demanded finally, then repeated, "This is how you have fun."

L nodded in affirmation, cautiously.

Light literally threw his hands up in the air over that, and L was privately thrilled at getting such an entertaining reaction out of a usually composed Light. On the surface, however, he forced himself to remain stoic. Mostly.

"Okay," Light said, breathing deeply. "Okay, you're obviously going to be of no use whatsoever here."

"Not true," L protested. "I have every intention of putting my detective skills to work to find Mello, I just fail to see why it is such a priority for you."

Light was still taking deep breaths and staring at L. Finally, he said in a falsely calm voice, "All right, then. A few items of business, if you don't mind, L." Before L could tell him that yes, he did mind, _items of business_ had a nasty habit of getting in the way of his fun, Light continued. "First of all, wipe that smug grin off your face; it's not as though you've won anything. I'm just . . . I'm just calling a truce for now, all right? Secondly," he continued before L could answer that, "a child is missing, one of your heirs, you're supposedly the world's greatest detective; can't you _do something_? And thirdly, do you or do you not possess an actual soul?"

After a moment's thought, L sorted the questions out well enough and responded, "All right, yes, and the jury's still out."

"I bet it is," Light muttered darkly. "Look, L, can you please just find Matt and ask him if he knows anything about this?"

Before L could answer, he was interrupted—God, he hated that—when a dull voice asked, "Ask me about what?"

Turning, L found a tired-looking Matt standing in the doorway. Even though L only had a brief moment to study him, his eyes still widened a bit in surprise to see Matt, who was usual a picture of health and cheer, looking so . . . empty. In that brief moment, L noted weariness and too-old sadness in the soft lines of Matt's face. This must be affecting Matt more deeply than he'd thought it would, L thought. Before he could stop it, he felt a sharp pain in his chest and sucked in a deep breath against the guilt swarming his mind. Matt would be fine, he reminded himself. Mello would be fine. And regardless, L had done what he saw was appropriate, so it really didn't matter one way or another.

Right?

Light gave L a hopeless look before facing Matt and telling him gently, "We think Mello's run away, Matt."

Matt's face was still stoic for a moment before Light's words set in, and then L watched a his already wan face paled further and he swallowed heavily. "What?" he finally asked.

"His things are gone, we only just found out, we were coming to ask you . . ." Light's run-on sentence trailed off (much to L's considerable relief, as poor grammar was a bane of his existence) as Matt's face changed from ashen to a nice shade of pale vermilion.

Before Light could ask what was going on, Matt turned to L and spat, "This. is. your. Fault."

L blinked. "Don't you think you're overreacting a bit, Matt?" he asked. Seriously, what was _wrong _with the two of them? They were acting like instead of running away like the brat he was, Mello had jumped off a cliff or something. (Distantly, L's mind echoed memories of A and B, but he slammed the door firmly against that train of thought.) But they still had 8 or 9 hours of sunlight left to search, Mello had no transportation or connections, and the boy was a teenager, for God's sake. L knew Mello was devious and resourceful, but he just didn't have any resources to really work with out here.

"No!" Matt exploded. "No, I think you're underreacting, as-fucking-usual. I knew you were socially retarded, L, but this is taking your faults to a whole new level!"

L stared down at the advancing boy and found himself . . . perhaps frightened wasn't the right word. Apprehensive, then. He was a little apprehensive. "Matt, if you'd like to help us search for Mello, your computer expertise would be appreciated-"

"I wasn't finished yet!" Matt snapped back. "You think you can read people, you think you're great at problem solving, but you're _not_, L. You can't read me well enough to know that I'd rather be on the other side of the law than take your place as the next L, you can't read Mello well enough to know that you've destroyed him, and you don't know enough to leave things the hell alone!"

By this time, Matt's shouting had attracted quite a crowd of curious onlookers. Light cringed at the whispers that were beginning to circulate through the group, but Matt didn't even seem to notice.

"Have you considered the possibility that I did know all of those things, but I just deemed them inconsequential?" L asked, and Light recognized the smoothness in his tone for the controlled emotion that it was. L was acting aloof, but Matt's words had affected him, one way or another.

Matt was silent for a moment, and in that time, all the emotion seemed to seep from him until L was looking at a shell. "Then you're even worse than I thought, and I never want anything to do with your or this orphanage again," he said quietly.

"What is going on here?" an imposing voice demanding, cutting cleanly through the crowd's gossiping, and the assurances Light had been about to make.

Everyone stilled and looked at Watari, who was standing in the doorway, taking in the messy room Mello's missing clothing, and the expressions on the faces of the three people in the room—anguish (Matt), horror (Light), and perhaps a bit of mild discomfort (L). In that brief moment, he gained a good idea of what was going on and, accordingly, said, "My office. Now."

* * *

><p>Perhaps the other two weren't aware, L thought, but Watari's office was not a place that they wanted to be. He shifted from one foot to the other anxiously (Matt having collapsed into the only chair available upon entering the room) and wondered when the lecture would begin.<p>

But instead of that, Watari just looked at Matt gently and asked, "Matt, can you tell me what's going on?"

To this, Matt's flat expression shifted and twisted and (to L's horror) Matt suddenly burst into tears.

"Mel—Mello's _gone_," he choked out. "He's gone—and—and—ask _him_," he managed, jabbing a vicious finger in L's direction.

L shifted uncomfortably as three pairs of eyes, all with varying degrees of hostility lurking within them, turned to look at him. He cleared his throat nervously. "It appears that Mello has run away," he announced.

Watari blinked. L swallowed again. "And do you have any clue as to why that is?" Watari asked.

L nodded, feeling rather like this must be a trick question—it was too easy. "I believe that would be because I said that I'd like Matt to be my heir," he began.

"Wrong," a quiet voice said. When L looked over at him curiously, Matt did not look up. "You're wrong," he said hollowly. "Mel didn't run because of that, not really."

Watari turned his attention back to Matt. "And why do you think he's gone?" he asked.

Matt wiped furiously at the tears on his face, and L felt that uncomfortable _guilt_ feeling again. "He left 'cause he realized that he didn't matter to L. He left because he felt like all the work he had done was for nothing. He left because I lied to him, but also because L showed him that he was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things."

Watari and Light turned to look at L, who resisted the urge to squirm his way out of the room. "Well, of course Mello matters," he said.

"Only as one of your heirs," Matt interrupted. L wished that the kid would stop being so goddamn perceptive. "Only because you saw something of use in him."

L stared at him for a moment, then looked helplessly at Watari. "Is there another reason why people matter?" he asked, bewildered.

The silence, poignant as it was, seemed to crack and spiderweb out after he said that, and the flat expressions on the three others' faces broke away to reveal a myriad of emotions L would rather not deal with right now. Or ever. That sounded good.

Matt let out a choked sob and put his face back in his hands. Watari made an attempt to wipe the horrified expression off his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I have obviously failed you in some way, L," he said softly.

L, brilliant though he was, didn't have anything to say to his father figure about that.

"Well," Watari said, sitting back up and looking at Light. "We obviously don't have time for this right now."

Light missed the comment directed at him; his eyes were still focused on L, and his expression . . . was difficult to decipher, but if Watari had to guess, he'd say there was anger, and incredulity, and . . . hurt. Watari shook his head and asked, "Light, why do I always find you in the middle of this sort of thing?"

Light smiled, a little sadly. "Trouble has a habit of finding me, I'm afraid," he said. Then in a quiet voice he added, "I'm just worried about Mello, sir."

"You're right," Watari decided immediately. "We need to focus on that right now." He looked around the room. "Who first discovered Mello was missing?" he asked.

L raised a hand. "That would be me," he said.

Watari looked at him. "And after realizing Mello had disappeared, you immediately sought out . . . Light?"

Okay, this _had _to be a trick question. ". . . yes?" L finally answered.

Watari was still for another moment, then he nodded and stood. "Light, will you please take Matt and ask the students and staff if they saw anything of interest?"

Light nodded and helped Matt out of the chair and walked the two of them out. L tried to follow, but found his way barred by the seven words he liked least to hear: "L, I need to talk to you."

This, of course, was closely followed by the seven words, "L I'm afraid we're out of cake," and "L, we can't find any evidence for the case," that he also hated to hear.

At any rate, L, cringing a bit, turned around and prepared himself for the lecture of a lifetime.

. . . which did not come.

Hesitantly, L looked up from the spot on the carpet he'd been carefully studying for a while now and met Watari's eyes.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

Watari was not angry, or exasperated, like he usually was in these situations. He was . . . he looked sad to L, and perhaps a bit older than he really was.

Crap. This was bad. L wasn't even sure what was going on, but he knew it was bad. He felt his heart sink down into his stomach (a rather inconvenient occurrence, since L liked those two separate).

Watari finally spoke. "I can't even think of where to start," he said.

L studied the carpet some more. "We could delay the lecture for now and go and look for Mello instead," he suggested.

Watari sighed again, and L didn't dare look up at his caretaker's expression this time. So it was without any frame of reference that he heard Watari agree, "That sounds just fine, L. Join us when you have the time." And he got up, and walked out of the room.

And left L feeling worse than ever before.

* * *

><p>AN: I can't decide if I'm going to get more reviews saying, "Aww, poor L, he's socially deficient and can't help himself," or "Aww, poor Matt just lost his best friend," or even, "Aww, poor Light, he likes L and L's being a douche," or "Aww, poor Watari, he tries so hard." Those were my reactions, anyway.

At any rate, Mello has managed to screw things up even when he isn't around, so that's awesome. I don't think I can promise that this is the least depressing chapter, but hey, at least it's a chapter, right? AMIRITE? :l All right, I think that just about wraps up this A/N. Stay tuned to find out where Mello went, how the others are going to find him, and whether or not L and Light have a chance together (readers: THAT ANSWER IS YES, BAHARI, JEEZ, WHY DO YOU THINK WE'RE EVEN HERE.)

Thanks for reading! Please review!


	11. Compassion

**Part 11 - Compassion**

**Published 2.11.13**

**A/N: I've decided to put these things at the beginning instead of the end, since I feel like they can take away from my writing. Not much to say about this, actually, except I don't think there will be too many more chapters after this - just one or two, I think. I hope you all enjoy it and let me know what you think!**

**-bahari**

* * *

><p>After speaking to Matt briefly, Light decided to head out and explore the grounds and the small wooded area behind the house in search of Mello while Matt and Wammy headed into town, where Mello was much more likely to be. Light didn't bother to resist the urge to kick at the colorful leaves and small rocks that adorned the trail in the woods outside Wammy's. He didn't even <em>pretend <em>to resist.

"Fuck," he muttered, his gaze unfocused and irritable as he glared down at his feet.

Fucking L. Fucking L and his pragmatism and his sexy body and his hair and god, those _eyes_ –

Light stopped himself, angrily, as he realized simultaneously that a) his crush on L was all kinds of out of control and that b) if he was going to be out here searching for Mello, he should at least actually _look_, instead of staring at his feet. With a sigh, he raised his head and began to walk, realizing as he went that he had completely wandered off the trail. Of-fucking-course.

Of course, as soon as he _wasn't_ looking at his feet, he tripped over a goddamn tree root.

"Damn it," he snarled, sitting up and tugging his foot from where it had become wedged in the space between a root and the ground. The ground was obviously not doing its job, as it was supposed to be hiding roots and other unpleasantries that had taken it upon themselves to fuck up his day.

Muttering to himself, brushing dirt and leaves and god-knew what else off his clothing, Light dragged himself to his feet again. He was about to storm off in the opposite direction, in hopes of finding the trail again, when suddenly he heard something rustling behind him. He froze.

Here's the thing.

Raito Yagami had grown up in Tokyo. And not even the nice, suburban areas of Tokyo, with parks and open space and landscaping. His family could afford it, of course, with his father's job, but his parents had wanted to live closer to the precinct to limit his father's commute. So. Urban living at its finest, with absolutely no reason to interact with anything organic. That was Light's background. (He had actually been somewhat ill-at-ease, living in the English countryside. It was just . . . all the plants, and grass, and unsolicited foliage, and the unreasonable amount of _trees_. They were suspicious.)

So there he was, in what could have been the middle of nowhere for all he had access to any technology or help or society, and he heard . . . a noise. Something rustling behind him. So of course that began a perfectly reasonable train of thought, one that any normal, rational human being would have in that situation.

_Does England still have wolves? _Light wondering, mind racing._ Or bears? I don't think they have snakes, there's some kind of legend – no, wait, that's Ireland. Fuck. Fuck me. It's probably a snake. I'm going to die. I came all the way to England to teach a bunch of junior league geniuses computer science, fall in love with the one person on the planet more naturally emotionally inaccessible than me, and get attacked by a snake-bear-wolf (snearolf? wolbearake?) and _die.

Light forced his breathing to stay even (_can all predators sense fear? Is a snake even considered a predator? Can they smell it, or see it in my eyes, or . . .?) _as he turned, slowly. Once he'd turned his body 180 degrees, he froze in place and looked around.

Nothing. He sighed and brought his hands up to his temples and rubbed there, trying to force back the panic headache that had begun when they noticed Mello was gone and had been getting steadily worse since.

Just as he'd decided that the heat of the moment had gotten to him, that the stress of being around L, and losing a student, and having no clue what to do about either when he usually had all the answers; just then, there was a loud _snap_, and a muffled curse that sounded almost directly above his head.

Flinching, Light craned his head back and peered through the thick branches and plenteous leaves of the huge maple (oak? elm? birch? . . . fuck it) tree above him. He saw a flash of black and gold moving, and when he ducked around a branch to get a better view, he finally spotted –

"Mello."

The spot didn't move, and Light sighed, stepping back so he didn't have to tilt his head back quite so far.

"Mello," he said again, louder. Still nothing. "Mello, I know you're up there," he called. "And I'll pull out my cell phone right now and let L know where you are if you don't answer me." It was a bluff. In classic idiot-savant form, Light had forgotten his phone inside. Who needed a phone while on a semi-urgent search for a missing person? Why would Light want any sort of communication device while he was getting lost in the woods?

"Fuck you!" Mello shouted back. Light supposed that he meant to sound fearsome and angry, but the way his voice cracked just made him sound very sad and very small.

Light sighed again and continued in a softer voice, "Come on, Mello, get down. You're going to fall and crush something important and God knows I'm not performing CPR on you."

Mello was just close enough that Light could see him grimace. "No," he said. "Bugger off!"

"What are you going to do, then," Light asked, still trying to appeal to reason, "just stay up there forever?"

"Maybe!"

Light backed up a few more steps and then stopped, surprised. There was . . . a structure up there. Mello was sitting, not on a branch like Light had originally assumed, but a plywood floor built on top of some supporting branches. There were even little walls and windows. Holy shit, was this what a tree house looked like?

Mello must have noticed how startled he looked, because he sneered, "What's the matter, Light, never seen a tree house before?"

"Uh . . . no," Light said, distracted enough to answer honestly. He began to circle the tree, taking in the impressive architectural features of the place. It looked like it had multiple rooms with – were those stairs!? – a multi-level ceiling and a balcony that stretched out on some of the highest branches of the tree. The whole thing was a good 40 feet off the ground.

"No?" Mello scoffed. "Who's never seen a tree house before?"

"I grew up in a big city," Light said, blinking a few times and then stepping a bit closer so he could see Mello better. He paused. "Mello, did you _build_ this?" he asked incredulously.

Light was relieved to see a small smile on Mello's face. "Some of it," he said. "The balcony was my idea, and the stairs."

"How? When did you have time to build this?" Light wondered aloud.

Mello shrugged. "Someone had already built the platform when we got here. We just added on."

"'We'?"

"Me and . . . a couple of other kids."

"Matt?"

Mello scowled. "Don't talk about that traitor to me," he snapped, disappearing into the structure.

"Damn," Light muttered under his breath. He circled the tree again, trying to find Mello, and then ducked when a rock was thrown right at his head from one of the windows. "Mello!" he cried. "That almost hit me!"

"Well, at least my _aim_ isn't second-rate!" Mello snapped back, and Light sighed.

"Look, Mello, will you just talk to me?" Light asked.

"I don't want to talk to you!" Mello shouted at him.

"Well, who do you want to talk to?" Light called back.

There was silence.

"Please, Mello?" Light asked, and was rewarded with another flying rock attempting to blind and/or decapitate him.

"Why don't you just call L and have him deal with it!" Mello shouted. "After all, he knows everything! He's in charge of everything!"

"L's an asshole," Light snapped back. "He doesn't deserve to be in charge."

Mello was quiet again, and this time the silence wasn't quite as uncomfortable.

"Mello, I'm not gonna call L," Light reassured him. "I'm not gonna force you to go back to the house. I just want to talk."

"So talk."

"Will you come down here, then?"

"No!" Mello shouted, and Light grimaced. Great. He put him on the defensive again.

"Well, what do you want me to do, then, just have a shouting match with you for a while?" he called up the tree.

"Why don't you climb up here?" Mello suggested, gesturing to wood planks nailed into the trunk, ascending up to the tree house.

Light's mouth was very dry all of a sudden. "Mello come on, that's dangerous!" he said.

"No it's not!" Mello snapped back. "I climb it all the time!"  
>"I meant for me," Light said. "I don't know if it'll even hold my weight—"<p>

"Lots of kids can be up here at once, it's fine," Mello called. "Besides, you're not _that _fat, Light."

Light gritted his teeth. "Can't you just come down here to talk?" he asked. "It's not like I have a trap set or anything. I just found you by accident!"

Mello peered over the edge of the platform, and although Light fought to keep his expression blank, Mello grinned at what he saw.

"What's the matter, Light?" Mello taunted. "You're not scare of heights, are you?"

"No," Light snapped back. "I'm afraid of falling 40 feet and cracking my head open with no one but an emotionally compromised twelve-year-old here to administer emergency care."

Mello looked smug. "You come up here, or I'm not talking to you at all," he said, pulling his head back inside and disappearing altogether from Light's view.

"Damn it," Light muttered. "Mello," he called, but Mello was silent.

Light approached the tree, hesitantly putting one hand on the planks of wood leading up to the tree house. "Mello, come on!" he shouted. Still nothing. "I've never even climbed a tree before, Mello!" Laughter from Mello, but nothing else. "Fine," Light finally sighed. He put his hands on the highest planks he could reach and tested them; they could hold his weight fine, although that wasn't really all that comforting. It wasn't the planks he could reach that worried him; it was the ones twenty, or thirty, or forty feet up that he was a little concerned about.

Light looked over his shoulder, back in the direction that he'd come, wondering if he should just take a chance and run for help . . . but he wasn't actually sure _how _to get back, and what if Mello disappeared in the time he was gone?

Nope, it looked like he was gonna have to do this.

With a sigh, and a wistful look at the wonderfully solid ground, he gritted his teeth and began to climb.

It wasn't so bad, actually, as long as he didn't think about how, if he fell, he almost certainly would die, and if not that, then he at least would be in excruciating pain. And . . . now he was thinking about that. Awesome.

By the time he finally pulled himself into the tree house and laid down on the dusty floor, he was dirty, sweaty, pale-faced, and a little shaky. But overall, so, so glad to be alive.

Mello looked over at him and snorted. "You're such a lightweight," he said snidely. "How do you even get ready in the mornings? Aren't you afraid the water will be too hot? Or that you might poke yourself in the eye with your guyliner?"

"What the hell is—" Light stopped. Worked it out. "I don't wear guyliner!" he said, giving Mello a withering look.

Mello laughed, spitefully. "Not right now, anyway," he muttered. Light decided to ignore that.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he looked around the tree house curiously. It was an impressive structure, and could easily fit another ten people. He noticed a duffel bag flung into a corner (so that's where all Mello's chocolate went) and nearly shrieked when he noticed a spider crawling up his arm. Flinching and brushing it off violently, he finally turned his gaze to Mello.

Mello was . . . well, he looked much the same, except perhaps a bit paler. Not that Light had expected him to look much different, although Matt had definitely lost weight in the past few days. His eyes were a little red, a fact that Light decided he should definitely not bring up. Instead, he asked the first thing that came to mind, which was, "So . . . you and Matt built this?"

Mello shrugged, not looking at him, and scraping at some of the splintered wood with his nail. "Some," he said. "Some of the older kids helped us get started. They built the platform and the walls and helped us get the materials."  
>"'The older kids'?" Light quoted. He thought it would be best to follow whatever flow of conversation Mello chose. It would be best if he could just keep him talking. "I thought you were the oldest one here."<p>

"I am, right now," Mello said. "There used to be a few others, but they . . . moved on. Graduated, most of them."  
>Light paused. He wanted to brush past this topic, try to twist it towards the current emergency, but the way Mello said it made him pause. "What happened to the others?" he asked.<p>

Mello looked at him sideways. "Where are you from, Light?" he asked.

Light turned to face him, startled at this new direction the conversation was taking. "What do you mean?"

"Where are you from?" Mello asked. "Where did you grow up? I'm not telling you information if I'm not getting anything out of it."

Light gave him a wry smile. "Suppose I should have expected as much," he said. "Why do you care where I grew up?"

"I don't," Mello said. "Not really. I just know you don't want to tell me."

That surprised a laugh out of Light. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm from Tokyo," he finally told him.

Mello turned his head to the side a little. "But you said you didn't speak any Japanese."

Light's wry smile returned. "I lied," he said.

Mello blinked, then turned to face him. Damn. Now he'd interested the little fiend. "Why?"

Light shrugged, turning his head to watch the tree's branches move almost soundlessly in the light breeze. "I didn't want anyone to guess where I was from. Or, I guess, who I was."

Mello didn't say anything, just looked at him curiously.

"I think I've said enough to earn an answer to my earlier question," Light reminded him, and Mello frowned.

"I guess so," he acceded. "Most of the older students graduated. They were the single-letter class, kind of the first generation of students."

Now it was Light's turn to be curious. "There was another class before you?" he asked.

Mello nodded. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his forearms, which were crossed over the balcony's railing. He stretched out his feet so they could dangle off the edge, giving Light a look of amused irritation when Light made to protest. "They were the first. I think there were only a half-dozen or so. The beta group."

Light frowned. "That's sounds a little . . . callous?" he said uncertainly.

Mello shrugged, not looking at him. "We're not really supposed to talk about them."

"Why not?"

"Why don't you want anyone to know you're Japanese?" Mello countered.

Light's frown deepened. He liked Mello, and he wanted him to trust him, but . . . no one knew these things about him. He squirmed for a moment before deciding. If he could earn Mello's trust, maybe he could convince him to go back to the house. "I . . . it was hard for me to get away from Tokyo. I didn't want anyone telling me I needed to go back."

"Why would you need to go back?"

"In Tokyo, the age of majority is 20, not 18," Light said simply.

"What's tha- Wait, you're only 18?" Mello demanded.

"Yep."

"Why the hell are you in charge of me? That's only, like, 6 years!"

Light grinned, and shrugged. "It's my infinite maturity and authoritative personality."

Mello grimaced as he thought about that. "Stupid," he muttered. "18 . . ."

"The beta group of students?" Light reminded him. "The, uh, 'alphabet group'?"

"I called them the single-letter class, dumbass," Mello corrected, and Light gritted his teeth to keep himself from snapping back. At least Mello was talking to him. He tried to convince himself anew that this was a good thing. It was hard.

"Sure, that," he finally agreed.

Mello looked suspicious at his amicable tone, but continued. "They were the first group of students Wammy's trained. I guess it turned out kinda shitty, so they restarted with my group."

"How shitty?" Light asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Two of them are dead and one of them is in prison for murderin' a bunch of people."

"Well . . . shit. Yeah, that is shitty."

"Told you."

"What happened?"

"Why does it matter that you're not the age of majority?"

"Damn it, Mello," Light muttered. Mello smiled brightly at him, and after seeing him so broken and miserable for the last few days, Light didn't have the heart to be angry. "I . . . I'm not of the age of majority, so if someone reported it, I'd have to go back home."

Mello was quiet for a moment, processing that, and then his eyes widened. "You're not an orphan?" he asked. Light shook his head. "You _ran away from home_ to come teach here?"

Light sort of . . . grimaced. "I guess that's the simplest way of looking at it, yeah," he said.

"Well . . . fuck, Light, who are you to tell me _I _can't run away?"

"Because it's different."

"What's different?"

Light sighed in frustration. "The reasons, the situations. They're not the same. I didn't really have much of a choice—"

"You think I do?" Mello interrupted angrily. Light was startled at the sudden change in Mello's mood, although he really shouldn't be after knowing him for more than a few hours. Mello got up and began to pace, ignoring Light's cringing as he got close to the edge of the platform. "You don't get it, Light, this whole _place _is about teaching us to be as good as L. We're all supposed to be working to be his successor, that's what the classes are about, and the statuses, and the rankings. That's why all the grades are posted publicly, and why everybody works so hard. We're all trying to become the next L. And when he just . . . fucking . . . _picks _someone, not even picks _Near_, who almost always _beats me_ in the tests, but someone else, someone who I didn't even think I had to _worry about—"_

"Your best friend," Light interjects softly.

Mello looks like he's about to attack him over that, but then he just sort of wilts and chews at the inside of his cheek. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Not anymore, though."

"Mello, Matt will always want to be your best friend—"

"That's not the point," Mello exploded, angry again. "He _lied _to me, and . . . and even if he hadn't, L still wouldn't've picked me, he still would've picked _Near _over me, because no matter what I do, he still manages to beat me at nearly everything, almost every test, even when I _know _I'm studying longer and working harder—" Mello cut himself off, sitting down with his back to Light, brushing angry tears out of his eyes and taking deep breaths.

Light didn't say _I'm sorry_ to Mello, he didn't say _It'll be okay_, and he didn't try to lie. He just said, quietly, "I ran away because I was scared, mostly."

Mello looks over his shoulder at him, and Light finds that he can't even meet a twelve-year-old's gaze.

Light took a deep breath and forced himself to look at Mello, trying to smile and failing. "I was scared," he repeated. "When I first left, I was angry, and that carried me through for a while. Now, I'm mostly just sad about it."

Light can see that Mello is unwillingly interested in this, and although he feels anxious and irritable at having to reveal this, he's mostly just relieved that Mello's still listening.

"What changed?" Mello asks.

Light had to think about that. What had changed? When he'd left, all that time he was preparing to leave, he'd been angry. He'd been furious and hurt and frustrated and stifled. And he'd been angry all the way over to England. But as he'd settled in and started teaching, and as he'd started helping his students, and . . . and, honestly, talking to L, and fighting with L and watching L and fuck, he was creepy, wasn't he?

But as all that had happened, and as the hurt had died down a little, he could look at everything that had happened back in Japan a little more objectively and realize that he wasn't really all that angry anymore.

Mello was still watching him, waiting for an answer, and now it was Light's turn to let his feet dangle off the edge and watch as they flashed in and out of the sunlight that sliced through the branches. Still thinking about L, he said quietly, "Your problems follow you."

Mello looked confused as he moved closer to sit next to Light and let his feet dangle over the edge as well.

"I thought my problem was with other people, back in Japan, but I guess . . . I guess not. My problem was with myself."

Mello rolled his eyes. "Could you sound anymore like a fucking primetime Disney channel special?" he demanded, and Light smiled ruefully.

"I'm just telling you the truth," he said. "And I think the same goes for you. You think you're running away because of Matt and L, but I think you're running away because you're scared, Mello. I think you're scared and you don't know what else to do."

For a moment, Light really thought Mello was about to strangle him, but then the red anger drained away and left Mello looking uncertain and very . . . alone.

"What else _can _I do?" Mello asked. "This is what we're all supposed to be working towards. This is what I've been doing since I was, like, 5."

"I don't know," Light said softly. "But I don't think it's worth throwing Matt away over."

"Fuck Matt," Mello muttered angrily.

"No, Mello, listen," Light suddenly said, knowing that he was pushing his luck, but willing to do it anyway. "Matt is your best friend and you've known him your whole life, so you probably don't realize how rare it is to find someone who actually likes you, even when they know what a terrible person you are."

There was a pause in which Mello raised his eyebrows and his expression flickered back and forth between amusement and irritation.

Light stopped. "Wait. That came out wrong," he said. Mello nodded. "I just mean, people lie about who they are all the time. And I don't know what you're supposed to do now, and I don't know how anyone can fix this, but I _do _know that Matt is your friend, even when you hate him."

Mello was quiet, then; they both were, actually. The wind was a little stronger now, rushing through the trees with a gentle susurration that gave Light the chills.

"So . . . who are you?" Mello asked.

"What?" Light asked. Out of everything Mello could have said right then, that was not something he'd considered a possibility.

"Who are you?" Mello repeated. "Really. How come you're here?"

"I needed a place to work after I left Japan—"

"No, Light, really. Why did you leave?"

Light was quiet, and then he laughed a little, bitterly. "You'll need to offer me something better than answers to questions for that one," he finally said, his voice a little hollow. "No one knows that about me."

"What if I said I'd come back to the house with you if you told me?" Mello prompted after a pause.

Light looked at him in surprise. "Why would you do that?"

Mello shrugged and watched his feet swing beneath him. Light waited, but it seemed that no explanation would be forthcoming. "Okay," he said simply.

Mello looked up expectantly.

"My real name's Raito Yagami," Light said. For one absurd moment, he wanted to follow it up with, 'and I'm an addict.' Shaking that off, he continued, "I left because . . . I fucked up."

Mello looked startled, but Light didn't take it back.

"I have a family," Light said, after a moment's thought. "A mom, and a dad, and a younger sister. I love them, mostly, but it made me stupid. And careless." He stopped and glanced at Mello, who was just staring at him with rapt attention. Light sighed. "Standards were very rigid, in my home. I suppose it'd be a bit like here, except with _everything_."

When he stopped and didn't continue, Mello prompted, "Everything?"

Light looked startled, as though he'd forgotten Mello was there. "Yes," he finally said. "Not just academics, although that's a big part of it; but extracurriculars, and religion, and social life, and behavior. There's an expectation for everything, and none of it was up for discussion."  
>"What if you didn't follow what they said you had to do?" Mello asked curiously.<p>

Light opened and then closed his mouth. He thought for a moment. "It wasn't . . . it wasn't that anyone _said _anything to me. I just knew. No one ever had to give me orders, or direct me. It just seemed obvious."  
>"So what was the problem?"<p>

Light smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I didn't want to keep lying," he admitted. "It was exhausting; and I was unhappy. It was driving me crazy. So . . . I slipped up."

There was a pause. "Oh my god, you snapped and fuckin' killed someone, didn't you?" Mello finally responded.

"What?" Light exclaimed. "No! God, no, Mello, I didn't _kill _anybody! I . . . I just . . . I dated somebody."

Mello looked at him blankly.

God, why was this so hard? "My friend, Teru, and I went on a few dates, and my parents found out about it."

Still nothing from Mello. Yeah, he wouldn't know that Teru was a boy's name, would he?

"Teru is a boy, Mello," Light finally said, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Holy shit you're gay," Mello finally realized, words tumbling out quickly.

Light sighed. "Yes," he confirmed.

There was the longest pause yet, and Light finally opened his eyes to see Mello looking at him expectantly. "What?" he asked.

"So . . . what?" Mello repeated. "Were you, like, dating an arsonist or kicking puppies on your dates, or something?"

"What?" Light asked. Mello had completely lost him. Maybe this was what other people felt like _all _the time.

"I bet you went to a strip club and your parents found out!" Mello exclaimed. He began to warm up to the idea. "No, I bet your boyfriend _was _a stripper and he was corrupting your younger sister with his insidious ways! And—and you were probably a cross dresser, donning your red heels and little black dress late at night and sneaking off to meet him where he worked to continue your sordid tryst—"

"No!" Light exclaimed. "No, Mello, none of those things happened. Teru wasn't my boyfriend, and he certainly isn't a stripper! And . . . and what was that last bit, with the transvestitism? Never mind, don't answer that!" He took a deep breath. "No," he repeated. "Just—no."

"Well, what, then?" Mello asked, looking disappointed.

Light breathed deeply, feeling overwhelmed. "What do you mean, 'what'?" he asked. "I just told you. We dated."

There was a beat, and then Mello frowned. "That's _it_?" he demanded. "Christ, Light, I thought you'd done something _interesting_ for once."

Light felt vaguely offended, though he wasn't sure why.

"So . . . your parents just saw you two kissing or something?" Mello pressed, when Light didn't say anything.

Light, slightly flushed at this point, shook his head. "No," he said. "My mom just . . . uh, saw us together, on a date at a restaurant."

Mello was peering at him closely, as though trying to decide whether or not he was lying.

"It's . . . it's a big deal, in Japan!" Light said defensively.

Mello rolled his eyes. "Your parents sound crazy," he informed Light. "They saw you at a restaurant with this guy, and . . . what, disowned you?"

Light shrugged, resting his chin on his folded arms and watching the branches move.

"Wait, seriously?" Mello asked, and his voice was softer now. Light cringed. "I was _joking, _Light."

"They didn't . . . they didn't really _disown _me," Light said. "That's a little too strong. But I was . . . limited. No friends, no leaving the house. My mom drove me to and from school. Limited computer use, forced therapy. That kind of thing."

"You ran away because you got grounded?" Mello asked, expression twisting as he grinned.

"I already told you," Light said. "I ran away because I was scared."

Mello was quiet then, and his expression was unexpectedly serious.

"I couldn't fix any of it," Light said, starting off the explanation with a sigh. "Like I said, the age of majority was 20, and I had already accepted scholarships to a particular university, and said that I was going to live at home. I couldn't move out, because they could list me as a missing person, and my dad was the police chief, so it wasn't like I could hide very easily. I was stuck. Trapped." Light stops and swallows.

"It was hard, to live like that. I tried for a few months. And it wasn't so much that I couldn't have my blessed individuality or keep dating Teru. I wasn't all that interested in him anyway. I just knew that things wouldn't go back to normal, and that I would be miserable and stifled and scared for years if I stayed. For the next two years—maybe even longer—I would have been stuck living with people who didn't trust me, didn't know me, and didn't even really like me." Light paused, wondering if he should tell Mello all of it, and then deciding there was no reason to scare the kid. He stopped there.

"Shit," Mello said after a moment of contemplation. "That sucks."

Surprised, Light laughed. "It does," he agreed.

"What did you mean, though," Mello asked, "with what you said earlier – that your problems follow you? It's not like your family's lurking around here."

Light shook his head. "That's true," he agreed. "I meant . . . I left because I was angry with them for limiting my freedom and my autonomy. But I think I left more because I was sad, and because I thought that maybe things would play out differently, if I started over."

"But . . ." Mello prompted, waiting for the rest.

"You _are_ an observant little bastard, aren't you?" Light said, almost fondly.

Mello grinned, proud of himself.

"_But_," Light continued, "I got here, and I'm still sad about the way things happened. I'm sad about it, because they're still my family. And . . . I'm no different here. I thought I might be. I'd hoped I would be."

Mello looked at him scornfully. "You mean you thought you'd be straight if you came here?" he asked, sounding torn between disdain and amusement.

"No!" Light protested, then paused. "Well . . . maybe. I don't know. It's not as though I wanted this, that I wanted . . . to be gay." He finally forced himself to say it, trying to hold back the scorn he felt and failing. "It's not as though it's made my life any better or any easier. I thought that maybe if I went somewhere new, I wouldn't have to really think about it. Or, maybe if I had something interesting to focus on, I wouldn't have time to be interested in anyone."

"That doesn't—" Mello started, and then stopped so suddenly Light had to glance over at him to make sure he wasn't having a seizure or something. "Wait," he said slowly, and Light skimmed over his last comment, looking for mistakes until he finally found one and he cringed as Mello finished, "you didn't think you _would _be interested in anyone?"

"Well, yeah," Light said casually. "That's not to say that—"

"Oh my God, who is it?" Mello demanded.

Despite himself, Light laughed. "You sound like a giddy fangirl," he told Mello, who was not dissuaded in the slightest.

"I bet it's—oh my God, it's L, isn't it?" Mello decided.

Light made a face, too invested in telling the truth in this conversation to lie directly.

"It is," Mello said in a near reverential whisper.

"It _was_," Light said, a little snippily. "He's made it quite clear that he's not interested in anybody, unless he can use them in some way."

"Yeah, well, L's kind of a fuckhead, isn't he?" Mello said casually, almost cheerfully.

"I don't think that's a real term," Light rejoined.

"Your native language isn't English, so you don't know," Mello said haughtily.

Light smiled at him, helplessly amused despite everything that was going wrong for him. For both of them.

They sat there for a while, watching as the sun got closer and closer to the green hills in the distance. Finally, when there wasn't much orange light left at all, Light turned to look at Mello. "Ready to go back in?" he asked.

Mello shrugged, looking at his hands. He muttered something, so softly that Light couldn't quite catch it.

"What was that?" he asked, leaning in.

"What am I gonna do?" Mello asked.

Light sighed and pulled back. "I don't know," he said. "I know that there are people at that school who do care about you and what you do, but I don't know if L is included. I wish I could tell you he was."

"I don't want to go back," Mello muttered petulantly.

"No, you just don't want to face it," Light said gently.

Mello looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"I'm not trying to make fun of you," Light said. "Facing shit is hard." He cringed internally at how much he was swearing in front of a _twelve-year-old_, but he'd discovered that when Mello thought he was being spoken to like an adult, he responded better. "But you have people to help you. That's not always that case . . ."

Left unsaid was the '_like with me'_ at the end of the sentence.

Slowly, like a man condemned and headed to his execution, Mello pulled himself up and headed to the opening. Light got up to follow. Before he could start climbing down the tree, Light touched his shoulder briefly.

"Don't . . . hate Matt, please," Light said. "It's not his fault."

Mello's expression was dark, but not so angry as before. "Maybe," he muttered, and Light knew that that tiny opening would be enough for Matt.

"Okay," Light said. "Ready?"

Mello looked up at him, looking unsure. He gazed out towards the orphanage, and then sighed and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Let's go."


End file.
